


Credence Dreams...

by PureBatWings



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 1920s slang, Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Alternate Universe - World War I, Books, Conversations, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Influenza Epidemic of 1918-20, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Magical household, Male Friendship, Masturbation, New York City-historical, Not gonna rehash movie, Obscurial Credence Barebone, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Orphans, Period typical prejudices, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Work In Progress, smart Credence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-09-11 17:46:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 45,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PureBatWings/pseuds/PureBatWings
Summary: A friendship with a Irish-Polish Newsboy in 1914 opens Credence's eyes to different "sins". But where, oh where, is the Protector he's dreamed of? And when his protector appears in his life, how do they come to a mutual understanding?Usual legal disclaimers apply. Not my characters, not for money, no copyright infringement implied.





	1. Friendship of Sinners

**Author's Note:**

> Usual legal disclaimers apply. Not for profit, not my characters, not my circus. Just temporarily filling in for J.K. Rowling...
> 
> "The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked. His wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else but to be cast into the fire. He is of purer eyes than to bear you in his sight; you are ten thousand times as abominable in his eyes as the most hateful, venomous serpent is in ours." Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, Rev. Jonathan Edwards, 1741.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence is ten when he makes his first friend.

Credence met Patrick the summer of 1914, soon after the Great War started in Europe. He was ten and Patrick was thirteen. It was hard to miss the red haired freckled newsboy yelling out the headlines on the corner across from him, about anarchists, princes being shot, and sabre rattling Huns. They were each standing on 42nd Street under the 6th Avenue El in Times Square.

There were usually crowds in a hurry so they didn't look up to meet Credence's eyes when he thrust pamphlets at them willy-nilly as they scurried about during morning or evening rush hours. At mid-day, there were businessmen off to lunch at swank hotels and mothers doing errands and little old ladies letting their dogs sniff garbage in the sewers and add to the foul miasma of New York in the summer.

He was down to his last seven pamphlets by three that afternoon when a shadow blocked his view.

"Lemme see one of those, buddy." A grubby freckled hand bigger than his own reached out for one of his tracts and he was astonished enough by the interest, of someone caring about his leaflets, that he looked up and made eye contact with a pair of amused blue eyes.

"I know, map of Ireland written in all me freckles," said the other boy, dismissively. "Whatcher selling?"

Credence tried to gather his thoughts to give one of the many answers Ma had drilled in them to give people about New Salem and its mission. (In the quiet seething angry part of his head, he called her Mary Lou since she was about as maternal as a sewer rat devouring her babies.)

Patrick read a bit, snorted and crumpled the flyer, putting it in a back pocket. "What horse shit. What's yer name? I'm Pat Waslewski."

"Credence, Credence Barebone."

"Huh. That's one helluva moniker. I thought mine was long enough. Wanna smoke?" He pulled out a handkerchief wrapped around a bunch of cigarettes, clearly ones he'd rolled himself, found his box of matches and lit one. He blew a smoke ring and grinned cockily at an impressed Credence, waiting his reply.

"Uh, no. Ma says it's a smaller vice on the rocky road to greater sin and iniquity."

"Fine, suit yerself, more for me," Pat said, not in the least offended, returning matches and smokes to his plus fours' pockets. "Whaddyou like to do for fun when you're not trying to save souls, just fooling around, sprucing off?"

"Sometimes I have to watch my little sister, Chastity who’s two when Ma is busy with church work. Some of us kids play kick the can, get up a game of stickball. Ma makes me read improving literature, help with the services, help make soup for the street kids who come 'round." He showed Pat the burn on the side of his arm he’d gotten from spilled broth that was fading but still impressively red.

"What a louse. Not bad enough to make herself miserable, she wants everyone unhappy too. She knocks you about too, huh?" Pat said, eyeing the fading bruise on Credence's cheekbone.

"Spare the rod, spoil the child," Credence recited. It was safer to spout platitudes than say what he really thought about these "corrections" for his "failings."

"Yeah, my pa tried that one time too many and I scrammed after I punched the drunk bastard. It just got to be too much, y'know? There was no reason to hang about when my little sisters Maeve and Mary Margaret got sent west on some orphan train after Ma and me baby brother passed last year. I fell in with a bunch of other newsboys and now I got me a regular corner to work."

"Where do you stay?" asked Credence. Of course he had thought about running away, but he knew how bad it was for the street kids he saw when he was handing out tracts. He had two sets of clothes, a place to sleep, went to school and got fairly regular meals.

"Eh, here and there. Sometimes doorways when it's not so cold, sewer grates sometimes in the winter 'cept you get wet and then freeze and that's crummy. Ride the subway all night if I've got a bit of extra money. The guy who owns a bookshop and some magazine stands down near Astor Place will let me sleep in a backroom with his dog overnight when it's cold or snowy. Buster's a good one, he is, a big black and tan boy with a deep bark and big teeth to keep thieves away when his master's home with the family. Kills the rats and mice too, you should see him snap their necks in a fury."

"Someday I'll have a dog when I get a place with lots of land out of the city. I live down on Pike Street in an old chapel with Mary Lou and my sister."

Pat laughed. It wasn't a happy sound. "Credence, my friend, you keep holding on to your castle of dreams. Me, I'll settle for some food, some beer and a dry place in a boarding house to lay my head. Maybe someday a cute girl to call my own, if I live long enough. Read my papers and you'll see most of the world's people have lives gone more to smash than yours and mine even."

He shoved a copy of an unsold morning edition with the masthead part torn off at Credence and took the remaining six pamphlets out of his hands in exchange. "Here, read all about it. And in the wintertime you can use old clean papers to line your pants or coat or shoes, keep a bit of warmth around yourself. I've gotta go get the evening edition so the rich men can read about how much money they made on their way home to the suburbs and their wives who haven't a clue about their girlfriends in the city."

Pat tipped his cap and jauntily strolled off, ripping up the Anti-witchcraft pamphlets as he went, leaving fluttering bits of white turning grubby in the street.

Credence folded the paper and put it in his pocket for later reading. He wasn't expected back until five to help with meal preparation, so he walked over to Fifth Avenue to walk home and to people watch. You could learn a lot about people by saying nothing and just watching how they moved and interacted with each other.

Different neighborhoods held different sorts of people and then other people who didn't live there came and went in the course of a day. Their clothing alone could tell you a lot about a person. It was a colorful world of all sorts, very different than the black and white, good and evil simple world that Mary Lou was always going on about.


	2. The Sin of Onan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick has a crush and Credence is mystified about masturbation.

Second Samuel 1:26 "Very pleasant hast thou been unto me: thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women."

November 1918

"Great War ends! Armistice signed! War's over! Flu control measures save thousands of New Yorkers!"

Credence sighed and tried distributing a few more pamphlets as the next wave of passengers came rumbling down the metal stairs off the elevated line on Sixth Avenue. People were too relieved over the war being done to want to hear about the evils of magic at large in the world. The Kaiser had been defeated and no one wanted to hear about a struggle with the devil in the work of witches among them-- they wanted to celebrate, see their boys come home and go back to life as normal.

His friend Pat, across the street hawking papers, was doing a good trade, though. Everyone wanted the latest information about how the Allies had won, what peace would look like, what President Wilson thought about the American role in settling Europe's borders. While people were still walking around with masks to prevent 'flu from spreading, there was a sense of renewal and release in the late autumn air.

He and Pat had been friends for more than four years, talking about what was happening in the world, Mary Lou's latest crazy theory about witches being behind the Red Scare, Horatio Alger's adventures, and, lately, Pat's efforts to coax a waitress a few years older than him who worked down in Little Italy to be his girl.

Pat was persistent, despite her father, the restaurant owner's, disapproval. Bad enough Pat was a Mick, he was also a stupid Pollak and Emelia was a good girl with a fiancee drafted into the Army and stationed in Fort Dix, over in Jersey. He'd tossed Pat out for the third time that month when he'd caught him making googly eyes from the bar at the girl as she served the house special of gnocchi at midday. When Pat had swung downtown after lunch to pick up the evening edition papers, he always made it a point to get a beer and try to flirt with Emelia Riccoletti.

"I tell you, she's just swell, Credence, she's got these deep dark brown eyes, a red mouth and her body--" his hands traced a generous hourglass figure in the air and he threw a hand over his chest like he was having a heart attack. "I get so excited saying hello to her, having her say hello back in her lovely accent, imagining her body against mine, I get hard and have to, sometimes, take care of things, myself," he added, gesturing at his crotch, half proud, half rueful.

"Why would you need to take care of anything--down there? I mean aside from pissing?" At fourteen, Credence was on the tall side and thin, but his voice was still unbroken and even though he arm-wrestled Pat sometimes, his muscles looked like a kid's.

He wondered sometimes if Mary Lou kept them half-starved so they'd look younger to get her more donations from pitying members of the congregation and be reliant on her for longer. Her beatings were just one more thing to get through, he didn't have anywhere to go and no one else wanted him. Chastity had had a person or two ask Mary Lou if they could have her join their family as a daughter, not just as a housemaid or cook's assistant. Mary Lou always launched into a spate of crocodile tears about taking care of the poor and orphans and usually managed to finagle a few bucks from the softhearted saps before regretfully saying she couldn't give her daughter up.

No one wanted Credence. As Mary Lou reminded him, he was evil and a worthless sinner and he needed to flee temptation or impure as he was, he'd surely burn in hell with the witches. Only she was full of enough Christian charity to clothe his worthless hide and give him a home. Once she'd gotten herself into a good rant he'd more often than not find himself getting a whipping just for existing.

"Oh-ho. Well, you'll see what I mean when you're sixteen or seventeen and someone takes your fancy, Credence. You can't stop looking at her, everything is interesting about her and you want to kiss her and your prick gets hard, aroused. It feels good to rub it, sometimes your seed leaks when you have a wet dream and or are really worked up. At night when I dream about her, there's no privacy in the rooming house so I just ignore the others sleeping nearby cuz they ignore you, so long as you keep quiet while touching yourself," Pat continued. "You got a good Mary Lou quote against jacking off, Bible Boy?" he teased Credence.

Credence searched his memory. "Romans:13. "Let us behave properly as in the day, not in carousing and drunkenness, not in sexual promiscuity and sensuality, not in strife and jealousy..."

  
"Those all sound like good times to me! Exciting things ahead, not like your Ma's sermons," said Pat, slapping him soundly on the shoulder. Credence flinched, it was still sore from a beating a few nights back.

Later that night after he'd cleaned up the dishes and finished his other chores, he'd slunk up to bed. His pallet was in a converted closet that smelled of old paper from the hymnals that used to be stored in it. There was no door and his sisters, Chastity and Modesty slept on the other side of the thin wall, with Mary Lou in a real bed in a bedroom down the hall that used to be a choir practice room. She snored and he would often get woken up by her noise.

It was usually in those late night hours that what he thought of as his Angry One, a dark being lurking deep inside him would surface in his thoughts and mock him in his own voice, with his own face, urging him to kill Mary Lou, to rip her snoring head off, twisting her neck like a chicken for a stew pot and rend her flesh and spit out her bitch bones. It told him he had power, he was just too gutless to ever take it in both hands and be the worm that turned.

Resolutely, he stuffed the intoxicating dark voice back into silence and thought instead about what Pat had said. He'd just have to wait until he was older to see if some girl made his insides flutter, though he couldn't imagine any girl wanting him-- awkward, sometimes stuttering, ill-dressed, very thin and connected to the crazy movement of Second Salemers.

Much more comforting was his habit of imagining life with his Protector. He'd been very small, not long after he'd ended up in Mary Lou's clutches as a four year old, that he'd started creating his perfect world in his imagination. His Protector was a strong, powerful man, a fighter for him who would gave him lots of hugs and praise. His Protector would make sure that Mary Lou could never do anything to Credence and his sisters ever again.

He would take Credence from this hard grey city full of concrete to his place in the country, though the details of that house were never that clear since Credence had only seen swanky residences through their windows from outside in the evenings walking home. There would be dogs who would want to be with Credence and be his friends, and maybe horses and his Protector would take care of him and love him and teach him to be strong.

He'd make sure Credence had enough to eat, nice clothes and even went back to school, something Credence had missed since Mary Lou made him leave this year after he'd finished eighth grade. He'd liked school even though he frequently missed it due to Mary Lou's insisting that his giving tracts to the surly daytime crowd in midtown was far more important for the good of his soul than knowing where the capital of Bolivia was or what war reparations were.

His protector would smell good, like something woodsy and have light wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled at Credence, which was often. His voice could be strongly commanding or warm with amusement. Comforted with a warm glow in his chest, Credence would fall asleep, imagining the man's hand stroking his head, telling him what a good boy he was, what a fine young man he was growing into, how proud and happy he was that he was Credence's Protector and no one else's.


	3. Prohibitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grieving a loss, Credence also gains something.

Matthew 5:4 “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

January 16, 1919:  
He must have been feverish because he dimly remembered Chastity patting him down with cool washcloths and forcing sips of water between his chapped lips. Even more peculiar, he had crazy dreams-- his hands evaporated into wisps of smoke during the night, and his form rose like a searching black mist, desperately seeking northwards along the streets of Manhattan for something, anything, he could obliterate to settle his seething anger that boiled up at Mary Lou. He wanted to destroy things since he didn't dare raise a hand to her.

Those nights he felt out of control the winds howled along Avenues, stirring up dirt and papers and blowing late night workers practically off their feet near the skyscrapers downtown. Blasts of freezing air seemed, eerily, to blow in off both the East and the Hudson Rivers and tree limbs came crashing down in Staten Island and Central Park.

After a few days during which he was too sick to move-- when even Mary Lou had to concede he was too ill to hand out leaflets since he couldn't stand-- Credence returned to his usual haunt at the corner of Sixth Ave and 42nd under the El. He noticed his friend Patrick wasn't on the opposite corner. Instead a new newsboy shouted out headlines. "Prohibition Amendment ratified! Getcher booze while you can!"

He was clearly inexperienced because he just repeated the same headline or two, for everyone who passed him. Pat had a knack for actually selling papers-- he'd reel off market numbers, good or bad, to get the bankers and businessmen to buy, news from Albany to entice the lawyers headed down to City Hall to cough up seven cents and crime news for the cops and the flashily dressed, less-than-respectable citizens of the Big Apple.

The rank amateur gave Credence a hostile look when he crossed the street to talk with him. "Don't even think of running off my business, you bible-thumping freak!" he said, jutting out his chin.

Credence held up a hand and appeased him. "Where's Patrick, the guy whose corner this is? Is he okay? I'm his friend Credence," he explained.

The kid looked defiant. "My name's Ben and it's my corner now. He died last week from flu, Lenny downtown told me."

"Oh." Credence couldn't come up with anything much to say, he was so stunned. "Was there a funeral?"

"Nah, no one to pay for it. Potter's grave in a field on Blackwell's Island. We raised a glass in his honor the night after we heard, down at Riccoletti's where he liked to hang out."

Credence wished someone had thought to tell him, not that he would have fit in with a crowd of brash foul-mouthed newsboys, but it would have been nice to talk with others who knew Patrick.

He mechanically handed out the rest of his pamphlets that day in a numb fugue state and then wandered uptown, weaving east then west then northward until Columbus Circle was behind him. Central Park was barren and empty. It was a place where he could scream with no one to hear and call the cops to have him hauled away as a lunatic. So he yelled for a long time at a God who was so cruel as to take away his one friend in the whole wide world.

His throat hurting, he emerged from behind the stand of trees, found an isolated bench out of the wind, pulled his knees up to his chest in a miserable ball and cried for himself and his one friend. He didn't raise his head for a very long time. If he had, he might have seen a dark swirl that encircled his form protectively like a warm amorphous cloak or wings.

After a while it was too cold to sit still and he made his way downtown to the Lower East Side, not homeward, never homeward, but to a place where it was at least marginally warmer than the streets. He had forgotten to get lunch and would miss supper, but he could care less. He passed a bakery as it closed for the evening and his clothes were worn enough that the baker's assistant gave him two slightly stale rolls. She thought he looked like he was down on his luck. Never mind he had never known his luck to be up.

"Bless you, miss," he said, and thanked her automatically. "Can't let it go to waste on the rats," she said cheekily, and gave him a wink. Well, he thought with a despairing catch in his throat as the fact that Pat was gone hit home again, at least there's one person in the world who thinks you rate above a disease spreading rodent...

When he got to the chapel he abruptly remembered Mary Lou's typical punishment for being late. But no, he got a reprieve. During the day while he had been out, Mary Lou's sore throat had worsened into whatever ailed Credence last week. Chastity had made a supper of over-boiled soup for herself and Modesty. They were cowering in the kitchen while Mary Lou was in a feverish, half-conscious stupor on a chair in the sitting room. Struggling, Credence hauled Mary Lou to her bedroom and wondered what would happen to them all if she died, like Pat had.

Credence brought in a fresh pail of water to her room from downstairs. Reviving a little, she screamed at him to get out, foul wizard and get thee behind me Satan, you spawn of sin and moral turpitude. Credence stayed out of her sight after that, and left the bowls of soup and water for bathing out in the hallway for Chastity to bring in to her.

After a day or so, Mary Lou rallied. Credence was relieved at least that he wouldn’t have to find a new place for the three of them. Mary Lou insisted on Credence and Chastity waiting on her, catering to her every whim once she stopped hallucinating about witches. She planned to stay in bed for a week to recover for the Lord’s work, far longer than she'd given Credence to get over his fever and chills.

Credence spent much that week minding his little sister Modesty, who was an active three year old, distracting the toddler and talking to her, telling her stories from the Bible, making sure she was warm enough and got enough to eat, even if it meant giving himself a small portion. He made sure Mary Lou and Chastity were okay alone and took Modesty outside to blow off some steam.

The little girl was eager to get outside with Dence who was her favorite person in the whole world. He had successfully tired her out with the long walk they had taken along Canal Street looking at the shops and all the things they sold, and she had fallen asleep on Credence’s shoulder as he carried her most of the way back home. Credence placed a still sleeping Modesty on one side of his bed where he could keep an eye on her and undressed for bed, carefully removing the worn newspapers from his socks, his shoes and the inside of his jacket.

He put on a nightshirt and hauled out the newer papers he'd gotten from Pat last week that he had stashed in a pile under his bed. He would use them to insulate himself tomorrow when he went out on the streets and into the cutting wind again to fetch them more groceries. In the flickering glow of gaslight he sorted the newspapers out by size--The Times, The New York Commercial, the New York Herald, the New York Evening Mail, and, one he had never heard of before named The New York Ghost.

Curious, Credence sat on the edge of his pallet, cross legged, and examined the paper. Its masthead had a griffin on either side and "Sunset edition" next to the motto "Enchanted Dispatches to the American Wizard" and the date and the price, 3/100 dragot on top. The headline read "Prez Corey, VP Picquery react to No-Maj Prohibition Plans" and featured an unfamiliar politician's mug smiling for the camera. Credence gasped. The man's smile formed and reformed and moved, like a motion picture, or at least that was how Pat had described them to him.

Smaller articles below the fold included political appointments: "Graves promoted to acting security chief MACUSA" and sports news: "Quodpot League East picks Dinwiddie as head". A lot of the articles made little sense, but their very strangeness made him realize Mary Lou was right about at least one thing. There were witches and wizards out there and enough of them that they had their own newspapers.

MACUSA seemed to be their government and the advertisements for wands and cloaks and British Quidditch leagues sports scores made it clear that most magical people had very little interest in doing evil or tempting normal people to do anything particularly sinful contrary to Mary Lou preached weekly at her Sunday services. Witches seemed to have lives of their own, with little or nothing to do with the New York City that he knew and had lived in nearly all his life.

He looked up at his wind up alarm clock. Nearly 8pm. A flash under his fingers made him drop the Ghost in surprise and it flared up in green and purple sparks and then disappeared with a pop, and the cool flame flared out. He could have screamed with frustration. His first real proof that witches existed and it had disappeared, like... like magic.

He settled his head on his knees and thought hard. Maybe he was a little bit magic, magic enough to read their newspapers or see things out of the corner of his eye that others couldn't see. Mary Lou must have sensed something wicked in him but... but... he couldn't work out how to square what she had told him for as long as he could remember about witches and the evil they did, with what the Ghost seemed to indicate. He didn't know why she punished him more severely than the girls, but she must have her reasons. He knew he wasn't very smart or clever at speaking or good for much but, it seemed he could, maybe, see things others couldn't. There was one small thing that was something special about him. He just knew, all too well, he'd better not talk about it. The angry feeling inside of him eased, just the smallest bit. He had a secret of his very own.


	4. Treasures and Discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary Lou holds rallies and Credence meets a charismatic wizard.

Psalm 28:1 "To you...I cry out! My protector, do not ignore me! If you do not respond to me, I will join those who are descending into the grave."

October 12, 1926

"British miners end strike! Prime minister expected to end martial law in UK!"

There were days like today where Credence could close his eyes, go back ten, no, twelve years and feel like he had been here forever handing out these pamphlets with the same messages, just in different years. He felt sometimes like he would be trapped here forever, wearing a hole into the indifferent concrete as the world moved on around and without him. Okay, a few things had changed, but not enough.

He was a young man now, a thin one who hunched regardless of how cold or hot it was. His voice had deepened, he had to shave, he had some muscles, but he was still doing the same things with only the occasional distraction of reading a book in the public library for a few hours when he slipped Mary Lou's leash or when he went people watching, trying to spot the witches and wizards among them. The seasons changed, the newsboys on the corner across from his came and went, but none of them were anywhere as friendly as his old pal Pat had been.

Pat had accepted Credence despite his nervous tendency to find a biblical quote as a defense against anything new he encountered. Pat had teased him good naturedly even, clapped him on the shoulder like a true friend. He hadn't had a kindly touch since then, aside from Modesty's hugs and Chastity's careful washing out of the wounds on his shoulders when Mary Lou really laid into him with the belt.

"Why can't you just do as she says?" Chastity asked, hissing at him, unsympathetic as she dabbed at a bit of dry clotted blood that itched between his shoulder blades. "It's not that hard to act as she wants, I do as she says and things go easier. She's also right, you know, about avoiding temptations. Then I wouldn't have to try to patch you up when you earn yourself a lashing."

It was true Mary Lou didn't leave lasting scars on them when either of the girls did get whipped. But still. He had promised himself he'd stay til his younger sister was sixteen-- what was another six years or so of suffering after the eighteen he had already endured? Who would want him anyway?

Lately though, the household’s routines had altered. There were state elections this year and Mary Lou made it her business to find out when her candidate, Henry Shaw Jr. and his supporters held rallies and fundraisers that she could ride on the coat-tails of and use to spread her message.

"One big fish provides far more than many minnows," Mary Lou said, in explanation, "and we are called to be fishers of men." She led her three adopted children across town three days a week-- through Five Points, down to Pearl Street to City Hall and the world of skyscrapers including the world's tallest building, the Woolworth Building.

Credence had always been observant. It was one way to avoid casual backhands to the head or get out of being beat up in a street brawl. He watched the go-getters and the ladies of the night trolling for customers in Times Square and the fairies, the queer men, hitting on the sailors on leave. There was something about them that felt both familiar to him as well as off putting. He watched the world come and go on the streets around Times Square and when it got too cold outside, he would hand out flyers in Penn Station before heading down to Greenwich Village to watch the stylish Bohemians on their way to restaurants and speakeasies uptown.

He had found a Wizarding newspaper, The New York Ghost once-- it had vanished on him before he could hide it with his other treasures. He had a metal box he stashed behind a loose brick in a poorly lit section of a dead end alley near the church. Currently in it were his prizes: a tarnished silver scarab earring he'd found in 1923 when everyone was mad for trinkets inspired by the discovery of King Tut's tomb, a political button supporting John Hylan for Mayor, a bit of blue ribbon that reminded him of the color of Pat's eyes and a carefully folded advertisement from a glossy magazine of a handsome man in an Arrow shirt.

His life savings of grubby bills and coins found in the gutter came to $31.03. Screw building up treasure in heaven, he thought blasphemously, as he added each silver or copper coin to his stash.

He kept his eyes open for treasures besides lost coins. He might find another discarded Ghost blown against a tenement wall or maybe even a broken wand in the gutter. His ears were attuned to pick out the strange terms he had read in the Ghost-- MACUSA, no-maj, floo powder, quodpot and quidditch in other people's conversations. If the people who spoke these words were in the throes of heated discussion, mindless of their surroundings, he'd trail them in the crowd and note which buildings they entered or had come from. He studied their clothes to see if there were clues that gave them away. The men seemed to have silk linings in their flowing jackets like rich people, and the women's hats were not as simple as the cloche hats normal women wore.

Witch hunting, he thought to himself, hiding a private smile, could have more than one meaning. If he ever caught a wizard or witch, he wouldn't want to burn them-- he would grill them with questions once he got over his shyness. Among his first questions would be-- Am I magical? Could someone be a little bit magic or learn?

He noticed two observers on the outskirts of the downtown crowd listening to Mary Lou preach. They seemed different, they made his thumbs prick and finger tips twitch. A young, smartly dressed woman with dark hair and alert eyes like a sparrow seemed to be keeping a close eye on Mary Lou, but this listener did not seem in the least enthralled by her soaring, rabble-rousing rhetoric. She had been in the crowds once or twice a week since they began their rallies this summer.

Today she had brought an older man with her to watch and listen. He was someone she respected. Credence could tell from the way she deferred to him, yet her posture was alert. Clearly, he was also someone she wanted to impress. He wasn't a suitor though, there was no flirtation in their bodies ' movements.

He watched them furtively while he and his sisters circulated through the crowd, shoving papers into distracted hands. He gradually made his way within earshot of them.

"Do you see why I was concerned, sir? She bears keeping under observation, given how restive the no-majs are with the General Strike in England, the Reds in Russia and other anarchist and right-wing movements---" her explanation being cut off when the distinguished man put up his hand in a stopping gesture.

"Enough, Auror Goldstein, we'll continue this discussion later in a more secure location, capiche?"

She nodded. "Understood, Mr. Graves," and vanished back into the crowd.

The man watched a while longer, bouncing a bit on his toes before moving back onto his heels. He withdrew a pack of cigarettes and lit one, blowing the smoke out impatiently over the heads of the people in front of him.

Credence shuffled closer. The tobacco smelled different, not of cloves or just tobacco, but also a strong hint of ozone like sidewalks after a sudden rainstorm. Graves had a strong profile and watchful eyes. He surveyed the crowd lapping up Mary Lou's stemwinder speechifying like a policeman keeping an eye on tipsy revelers at a ticker tape parade.

Graves watched the crowd, Credence carefully kept darting side glances, watching Graves until the man's head turned in his direction. Credence froze and dropped his gaze to his scuffed boots.

"I'll take one of those, young man."

Credence jumped, realizing he was being addressed by the person he'd been busy admiring on the sly. Mr. Graves watched him with a focused attention that made Credence want to obey his orders promptly, to prove himself, to make the man pleased with him. That, or run and hide from such a searching, commanding look.

"Yes, sir," he said, and hurriedly stuffed a flyer into Mr. Graves' well muscled hand. "Let me tell you about our movement?"

The man twisted his lips. "Eh, maybe next time after I've read what you gave me. Tell me about yourself, instead-- what's your name?"

"Umm, Credence Barebone. Sir." Inside, his Angry One was stirring restlessly in response to his happy emotional reaction that "next time" meant he might see this man again. He mentally sat on it and stuffed down his impatience. Feeling daring, Credence shot a quick look into the dark intelligent eyes under thick eyebrows before ducking his head and hunching back down.

"Ah. She's your mother?--" he asked, jutting his chin in Mary Lou's direction.

"Adopted me and my sisters Modesty and Chastity, sir." Credence couldn't bring himself to lie to this man about how she was a paragon of Christian charity.

"Hmm." The man finished his cigarette and stubbed it out under his highly polished shoe. He held out his hand to Credence. "Percival Graves, nice to talk with you. See you around."

"Yes, Mr. Graves, you too," said Credence in a daze. He'd met his Protector, come to life from his hopes and dreams.


	5. Food for Body and Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence gets a "free" meal and a job offer from Mr. Graves.

The next meeting in the church on Tuesday, Credence was surprised to see Mr. Graves' associate, the young woman, seated in the congregation. She had placed herself off to one side and kept her right hand in her coat pocket, as though protecting something or keeping the reassurance of a knife or another weapon within close reach.

At the final portion of the service, passing the collection basket and pressing flyers on the unwitting souls who had sat on the aisles, Credence turned to answer a little old lady's question and when he looked again, the young woman had disappeared.

He was given his marching orders-- pamphlet Times Square, then Union Square, be back by six to help give out soup to the street kids. Less than ten minutes after his arrival and a hand raised in greeting to Fred who was hawking papers across the way, Credence's eye was caught by the glint of silver on a man's head, uncovered despite the autumn chill in the air. Mr. Graves had returned.

"Good afternoon, Credence, would you be able to tell me more about the New Salem Philanthropic Society today?"

"Of... of course Mr. Graves. What would you like to know?"

The wind kicked up a bit and Credence shivered.

"How about a bite to eat and a coffee somewhere, so we can talk out of the wind?" proposed the older man.

Credence gave him a shy smile. He knew that free food was rarely truly free, witness Mary Lou having the street kids attend a service and give out pamphlets before she'd give them a meal of watery soup. However, talking about NSPS for his meal meant possible leftovers to bring home to the girls as a secret treat. Extra food was rare enough that Chastity wouldn't rat them out, lest she not get some the next time.

"The Luxor Diner is nearby," offered Credence, "not that I've eaten there myself."

He led the way two blocks southwards and a block over to Seventh Avenue, answering Mr. Graves' questions as they walked. He told him about his sisters and how he needed to protect them when Mary Lou got angry, but he didn't go into the humiliating details of his beatings. Graves picked a booth with a clear view of the main door and the door to the kitchen.

There was no way this fellow wasn't a cop and ex-military of some kind, Credence thought, running through his many observations of veterans and New York's Finest and comparing them to the man across the table from him.

Mr. Graves ordered a coffee for himself, lemonade for Credence and a sandwich with fries for each of them before he got down to the real topic of business. "You seem like a bright young man, Mr. Barebone-- I've got a temporary job for you, if you're interested?"

Credence shot Mr. Graves an assessing look. "Not that I'm not interested in making a buck, sir, but I don't want to get jammed up by doing something immoral or illegal. Ma would find out and kill me. Painfully." He wasn't joking in the least, but Graves huffed in amusement, thinking he exaggerated.

"I can't imagine you allowing yourself even immoral thoughts, much less deeds, given your holy-roller guardian."

Credence thought Graves wasn't getting the point. "I've had immoral propositions before from other people. Some men in Times Square or Five Points are looking for fun times with boys or young men and they're not that picky. Not that you strike me as needing to pay for it with anyone, sir, well-heeled and ritzy as you are," he added hastily, hoping he hadn't offended his potential boss and lost the job before he even heard what it entailed.

If you watched people as much as Credence did, you saw all sorts of sexual behavior, furtive and not so furtive, in the nighttime streets and dim alleys. He was enough of a sinner that his curiosity got the better of him and he had watched men fornicate with women and even spied on men in sinful congress with other men. It was interesting and arousing but he resisted touching himself because that was a sin too. He didn't want to be Graves' catamite or a mouth that blew him in a dank corner.

Oddly, Graves flushed and gulped a mouthful of coffee before coughing. "Er, no, that sort of job isn't what I meant at all. It's legal. How old are you anyway, 17? 19?"

"Twenty two or so, Mr, Graves." He watched through his eyelashes as the other man's body relaxed minutely.

"You sure as hell don't look it." Credence could feel the assessing look travel over his face and then his body, covered in his thin jacket. He wondered what the older man saw in him that he was talking to him, wanting to give him a chance to make some money.

"Sorry, sir," he offered. He wasn't exactly sure why he was apologizing, but it seemed like a good idea not to challenge the man. Mr. Graves was clearly an authority in his world, whatever that might be. Credence drew on his courage to ask a question. His angry one inside radiated satisfaction at his temerity.

"May I ask what sort of line of work you're in?"

Graves pursed his lips in an almost smile. "Give me your best guess, kiddo."

"Are you some sort of secret agent like Hoover's G-men? Maybe a security chief for a downtown bank or brokerage house?" Credence hazarded a guess, the man didn't act exactly like a regular patrol cop and his shoes weren't worn like someone who walked the streets every day for hours.

He could feel Graves' surprised look scorching his down-turned face. Credence could almost hear the man thinking, considering how to answer.

"A bit of all of those, I suppose you could say. First, though, tell me what you think about witches and magic?"

That was more familiar ground. Credence started to give the pat answer that had been drilled and whipped into him since childhood. "In Exodus 22:18 it says..." Mr. Graves put his hand up to stop the flow of words, then covered Credence's twitching hand beside his plate. Credence winced. His hands were still painful from Mary Lou's last "admonishment."

"Let me see," ordered Mr. Graves authoritatively and slowly Credence offered him both of his hands, palms up, in supplication.

A brief shocked silence. "Shit. Hang on, I think I've got something in my coat that might help." He muttered something under his breath Credence didn't catch, maybe a curse in a foreign language.

He dug around in his pockets and produced a bottle of lavender essential oil. "It's good for burns, prevents infection, works as an antiseptic," he explained, smoothing it onto the abused palms and muttering some pain relief and healing charms over the worst wounds. White scars cutting across the trembling palms spoke of this being far from the first beating of this type Credence had received.

He could feel the warm press of Graves' fingers, massaging in the oil. It was definitely taking the pain away. The smell of lavender ticked his memory deeply-- a really old recollection from before Mary Lou hurt him, when he was three or four. He was sitting near a bed of lavender on a sunny afternoon, petting a black cat named Piewacket that sunned itself on a brick walkway while a woman sang and weeded a garden nearby.

"Better?" Graves rumbled and startled Credence. Graves wondered if he could secretly put a warming charm on Credence's clothing. Even a short lived one would be good in these temperatures, he decided.

"Oh yes, sir, thank you, you healed me like Jesus did the paralyzed man." Credence knew he was exaggerating a bit, but he was grateful to have his hands stop hurting.

Graves chuckled, a deep rumble like a lion's purr. "Hardly on that big a scale. Keep the oil for any other scrapes you get." At least No-Majs used lavender oil so the charms he wandlessly put on it wouldn't be easily detected.

"Thank you sir, thank you!" gushed Credence as he stowed the bottle in his vest. He couldn't recall the last time someone had been so kind.

"Protecting those who can't protect themselves is one of the many parts of my job, Credence, that's what I do."

Credence felt his face fall. Mr. Graves wasn't doing this because he wanted to be kind specifically to Credence, but because it was his job and his duty.

"Hey, we got way off topic there. I was asking what you, not your mother or your church, thinks about witches and magic."

"I don't know, exactly." That seemed the safest answer to give until he could figure out what Mr. Graves thought and ally himself accordingly, or seem to favor his view without outright lying to the man.

"I saw some damn peculiar things during the war, let me tell you,” said Graves reflectively, his hands cradling his coffee cup. “I was wide awake, it was broad daylight when suddenly a friend of mine appeared in front of me and said, "See you later, Perce, old boy," and vanished. I heard the next day he was dead. He had been meeting with some Tommies miles from me-- I saw him the same time he was shot to death by an Austrian sniper."

"You saw his ghost?" Credence said, astonished that such a rational, matter of fact man like Mr. Graves would admit to such a thing. It was like Mary Lou deciding to give up religion and join the Ziegfield Follies as a showgirl seeking her very own Daddy Warbucks.

"Yes, I know absolutely that Edmund came to say a last goodbye to me before he went west. What about you? I bet you have seen some strange things in your life you couldn't explain, yes?"

Credence decided one confidence deserved another. There was something about this man that he trusted.

"The day I heard my friend Pat was dead," he began, "I had three lucky things happen to me that comforted me--as the Good Book says, Comfort ye, comfort ye my people. A girl gave me bread when I'd missed supper, Mary Lou was too sick to punish me for coming home late and I found a newspaper that was proof that witches and wizards existed."

Graves froze, but kept his face expressionless. He hated having to obliviate innocents who stumbled on to magic unwittingly. "Oh? What was it called?"

"The New York Ghost."

Graves blinked, but otherwise kept his poker face intact. "So what did you decide?"

"I think most witches are as busy with their lives and their world as normal people are with ours. They aren't trying to help the devil, eat babies or lure people to do evil things."

"That's a very open minded opinion, given how you were raised," said the older man, his voice warm and approving. Credence imagined soaking in a hot bath must feel a bit like how he felt now, flushed with pleasure, relaxing in a comfortable place.

"I see weird things other people don't always see," Credence went on. No one had asked his opinion before and he couldn't help giving into this dangerous urge to want to tell Mr. Graves things he'd never talked about with anyone else.

"Such as?" asked Graves. He hoped Credence was a squib so he wouldn't need to obliviate him and figure another way to complete his creature-seeking mission.

"There are shimmers out of the corners of my eyes. Sometimes shadows hang around sad people or I see colors around them when they're happy. The young woman who brought you to the rally disappeared in church not long ago. I overhear people in unusual but fine clothes talk about No-Majs sometimes. No one notices me, I'm the perfect spy, just an idiot handing out flyers," he finished bitterly.

"Credence--" he looked up briefly at the reproachful note in the other man's voice. "Don't talk about yourself that way-- you're far from stupid and I can tell you're very attuned to other people. I need someone smart and observant to help me out here."

Credence felt the dark strong part of himself sit up at the well-turned compliment. "Do you believe in magic, sir? Is it possible for someone to be a bit magic, but not know he is?"

Graves leaned across the table and motioned him to lean in closer. Credence could smell his sandalwood cologne and a whiff of ozone and tobacco and looked his fill at the brown warm eyes under the strong masculine brows and the afternoon stubble darkening his chin and jaw.

Graves took a deep breath. It went against all his training to come out of the broom closet even to a squib and cross the line between maj and no-maj worlds, but that was what this mission demanded. "I don't need to believe in magic. I **am** magic-- I'm a wizard. Do you believe me?" His eyes searched Credence's face intently until the young man nodded and dropped his astonished gaze.

"And people think I'm strange," murmured Credence, half to himself. "You sound like you ought to be hauled away in a straitjacket by the men in white coats to the loony bin. But I think you're probably saner than most of the folks in this diner," he said, sitting back and eating his final French fry.

"There are some people, we call them Squibs, who come from magic families, but only have a little magic themselves-- maybe enough to see when someone's used magic or to do a few simple charms. From what you've told me, I'd guess you're at least a squib, maybe even a wizard."

Credence grinned a few moments, his plush lips revealing a line of straight teeth and then he suddenly hunched over, withdrawing back into himself.

"Credence?" asked Graves gently, "what's wrong? Are you ill?"

That smile transformed the young man's face, made him beautiful, vibrantly alive, alluring despite the dreadful bowl haircut. He wanted to see that smile again and even make Credence laugh someday.

"I guess I really am ungodly after all. As Ezekiel 13:20 says, "I am against your magic charms with which you ensnare people like birds."

"We don't ensnare people or birds. Well, Dark Wizards sometimes use Imperius to compel people to do things, but that's illegal Dark magic and we use owls or pigeons to deliver letters but, no, your average wizard doesn't do that, forcing people to be their slaves. Now, how about some dessert?" he asked, trying to redirect their conversation into a more profitable direction.

"May I have chocolate cake with whipped cream, sir?" asked Credence, sounding excited like an eight year old getting a bagful of chocolate frogs for his birthday.

Unbidden, Graves' imagination conjured up what this surprising young man might look like naked, except for some strategically placed dollops of whipped cream. Sternly, he reminded himself these were not thoughts he should entertain about an inexperienced squib informant soon to be in his employ, much less one who was probably inclined to women, rather than the "love that dared not speak its name" despite his knowledge of male prostitution.

"I'm sure they have cake," he said, waving over a waitress and ordering himself another coffee and a slice of cake for Credence. He also ordered a BLT and another slice of cake to go for Credence to sneak home and eat later.

"I promise I'll do a very good job for you, sir. You are too generous feeding me and talking with me," said Credence as he inhaled the defenseless cake and licked his lips. It was so good it must be a sin! Modesty would love the cake, she adored Baby Ruth candy bars whenever she could get her teeth on them.

Graves shook himself as Credence licked the remaining frosting off his fork. With a mental slap to his libido, he refocused on describing the job he needed carried out.

"Right. So, prick up your ears. I need you to find a special child for me, probably one who is older than three or four, but not more than ten or so years old..."

Credence nodded, focused on Graves now that the cake had been reduced to a faint smear of icing on the plate. "Okay. Boy or girl?"

"I'm not sure. The child's probably an orphan, or has parents who hate magic who taught him or her to fear magic, so they don't express their power naturally. The magic twists into a destructive creature called an Obscurus that feeds on the magic the child has been stopped or stopped himself from using. When their magic core is completely consumed, the child host dies. There are ways to separate the Obscurus from its host, but only a few people are skilled in the procedure. It needs to be done soon to save the child and prevent the parasite from getting more powerful. Have you seen the news of the water main breaks and the empty buildings that have been collapsing recently in the city?"

"Yes sir, I read the old papers Fred or the other news boys give me before I line my shoes and pants with them. The mayor is blaming it on old pipes and cold weather. He says that the buildings that fell down were built on places that were marshes or garbage dumps a hundred years ago."

"We in Wizarding security are pretty sure the obscurus is out there, getting stronger. So far no one's been killed, but we want to prevent deaths and help this poor kid out before he or she gets out of control and the obscurus takes over. It's destructive and we can't have it revealing to people that magic and wizards exist. The destruction seems concentrated below Canal Street, so we think it might be a child who lives in lower Manhattan, maybe near Mary Lou’s chapel."

"I'll do my best to find out who it could be, sir. I promise you, you can rely on me," Credence assured him solemnly.

"I'm sure you will, Credence, that's why I chose you to help us out," said Graves and drew on his coat and threw down a few bills on the table. He handed Credence the bag of food and three twenty dollar bills. "Here, consider this a retainer while you're looking. There will be more for you, especially if you find the child soon."

"You must be wealthy," said Credence, without any discernible envy as they left the diner. "That paid for our meal many times over. And that's too much to pay me, I can't work so many hours a week searching for you, Mary Lou would notice and beat me senseless which would put both you and me in a pickle."

His mind boggled at the idea of more than tripling his life savings, but he wasn't about to cheat Mr. Graves, either. For all Credence knew, the money might be enchanted to disappear if he didn't do the work or inflated the number of hours he said he spent looking.

Graves shrugged. "Take it. I'm well enough off. My father and his father before him have done well for themselves in industry and investing and my job pays a good salary. I need to get back to work, but I'll see you next week about three in that alley down there and see how you're coming along, okay?" he said, putting a hand on Credence's thin shoulder and giving it a short, reassuring squeeze.

"Yes, sir," breathed Credence as he carefully put one bill away in his sock and hid the other two about his person. He held out his hand, "I am happy to be working for you for as long as you need me. Thank you for this opportunity, Mr. Graves, I won't let you down."

"Good boy, enjoy your cake and eat it too," said Mr. Graves with a slight smile and shook his hand gently in parting. He strode away without looking back, heading downtown.

Credence watched the man duck into an alley down the street and vanish. There was a warmth lingering around his body as though he stood next to a glowing fire. Even his feet and ears seemed unaffected by the wind blowing. He would see Mr. Graves in seven days and that meant he needed to start working hard for his money, right now.


	6. Seeking answers and an Obscurus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Modesty has a secret and Credence meets again with the dashing Mr. Graves. Or is it really Graves, he seems different...

He tried, he really had. He watched the street kids who might be hiding something, the sneaky ones, the smarter ones, the Dumb Doras, the other girls who faked being dumb to avoid attention and the kids who butter wouldn't melt within three feet of who were excellent con artists in training, but nothing.

It was hard of course, he didn't have much to go on. No one seemed to have odd auras or a particular peculiar intensity. No one was violent except the nine year old boy who threatened to punch Credence right in the kisser if he didn't get his nose out of what wasn't his business. It turned out that kid was a lookout for a speakeasy on West 53rd when their bootleg hootch and beer got delivered.

Then he tried asking about witches. Mostly he got shrugs or casual insults about where anyone with a wand could put it. He had mostly given up on that line of questioning when, the night before he was due to meet with Mr. Graves, Modesty grabbed him after supper and whispered in his ear. "Don't go to sleep right away, Dence. I don't want that snitch Chastity hearing what I have to tell you."

He nodded and glanced over to see Chastity watching them suspiciously as she washed the soup bowls with an efficiency that spoke of years of practice cleaning up. "There's still some dishes for you to dry, Modesty. You know Ma hates sloth," she said throwing a dishcloth at her sister's head.

Modesty ducked into a mocking curtsy and snatched the wet cloth out of the air. "Shut up, you bluenose, you ain't no Princess Elizabeth of York."

"Ecclesiastes 12:14: For God shall bring every work into judgment, with every secret thing, whether it be good, or whether it be evil," retorted Chastity.

Modesty stuck out her tongue at her older sister who scowled and turned back to the grey, barely warm greasy water and the stacks of used soup bowls clattering with well-licked spoons.

In a syrupy voice Modesty started singing a new popular song she’d heard while leafletting outside a Times Square theatre with Credence:

"Mary Lou, Mary Lou Cross my heart, I love you. Every bell in the steeple is ready to ring

And all the people are planning pretty presents all for you. 

Mary Lou Won't you give me your promise true?

Why for miles around they're waiting To start their celebrating

When you say "I do" Mary Lou..."

“Oh shut up!” said Chastity crossly as she dumped another load of dishes into the sudsy water.

“Ma says “Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, ye that have tongues that sing true.” You couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, Chaz,” retorted Modesty, but she stopped singing so Chastity wouldn’t smack her on the sly.

Credence said "Modesty!" reprovingly, but he had to agree that Chastity was no chanteuse. He put another large lidded stockpot brimming with water on the stove to heat up for the next round of dish washing. Whatever was left after dishes would have to serve for sponge baths for the three of them. Then he began to sweep the worn floor of the kitchen, the hall and the chapel.

Once they had finished their chores, Mary Lou led them in their evening prayers, imploring God for mercy on all those weak of faith, tempted to lie, and those who kept secrets (she looked sharply at Modesty) and didn't honor their parents with perfect obedience. With greater enthusiasm, she implored the Almighty to smite the wicked, reveal and punish the magic users, strike down the sodomites and Bohemians, and make life generally unpleasant for those who didn't support Senator Shaw in his good works.

The Barebones turned in to bed. Credence spent his time waiting for Modesty by reliving his conversation last week with the swell Mr. Graves and wracking his brain to figure where else he could look for the obscurial child. Maybe he could go around to orphanages pretending to look for a lost half-sibling? About an hour later he felt Modesty tapping his cheek with cold fingers as she crouched down by his pallet.

In reply he raised his blanket so she could slip in next to him and warm her icy feet on his shins. She snuggled up to him, arranging his arm so it wrapped around her shoulders and her face was close to his. "Don't believe Mary Lou and Chastity, Credence, you're a good person and the best big brother a girl could have," she said quietly after her shivering stopped.

"What did you want to tell me about, Testy?" he murmured, glad that her feet were feeling a bit less like blocks of ice on his legs.

"Why have you been asking about magic?" she inquired.

"I've got a side job, Modesty, one that pays good money. And you can't tell anyone, promise?-- my boss is a wizard. He's trying to find a magic child and I'm helping him search."

"Jeepers!" her eyes grew wide. "I won't tell, I promise. Tell me about him."

"His name is Mr. Graves. He's about my height, with grey hair at his temples that makes him look really distinguished. He's some kind of policeman for wizards, as near as I can tell. He's got strong thick straight eyebrows, deep brown eyes you could drop into forever and he's take charge, but also caring. He healed me where Ma beat my hands and gave me an extra meal. I’ll give you and Chastity some tomorrow morning while Ma’s busy writing her speeches."

"He sounds keen. You're stuck on him, aren't you?" she teased, making smoochy noises with her lips. " You gonna let him kiss you?"

"Modesty! He's a man, that's a sin." he protested. Never mind he had wondered what it would be like...

"I say love is good, as long as it's not the love Mary Lou talks about when she's whaling on you with a belt. Just make sure he cares about you too. Have you found this child?"

"No, I haven't," confessed Credence. "I'm afraid he won't want to talk with me again when he hears I've failed. Was my asking about magic what you wanted to talk about?"

"Kind of, I found a wand last week after one of the rallies--"

“You did? Where? Down near the Woolworth building?”

She nodded. “No one else seemed to see it, even though it was on the sidewalk, plain as you please. So I picked it up and brought it home and hid it.”

They both froze as Chastity's head poked around the door frame of Credence's closet.

"Get back to bed before I tell Ma you're up talking all hours of the night with Credence, and she whips you both."

Modesty gave Credence a worried look and skittered back to her room, followed by Chastity hissing warnings at her about misbehavior.

**October 19th, 1926 2:50 pm**

"Russian politburo throws out Trotskyites! Stalin further consolidates political power!" yelled Fred one last time before he beat feet to pick up the evening edition of the Times.

Credence looked up at the nearest bank clock. Ten minutes to three, time to meet Mr. Graves in the alley near the Luxor Diner.

He stuffed the extra pamphlets in his pocket and hoofed it. Panting slightly, he waited in the alleyway, scowling at the posters he'd put up on Mary Lou's orders a few months ago that called for red-blooded Americans to wake up to the dangers of witches among us and eradicate them in a Second Salem.

"Mr. Barebone! Right on time, excellent." Mr. Graves held out his hand and shook Credence's heartily, not seeming to notice his flinch at the too hard grip on his right palm.

"What information do you have for me, my boy?" he asked, crowding Credence in his eagerness. He smelled off, no hint of ozone, thought Credence in the back of his head, and the tobacco smell was a bit different too.

"I'm so, so sorry sir, I haven't managed to find the obscurus for you. Yet."

He dared to shoot a look at Mr. Graves' face. There was none of the approachable kindness he'd shown Credence in the diner last week. He looked a bit angry and quite disappointed.

"That really is too bad. I had such confidence that you would be successful in your search. After all, you've had, what, a fortnight to find the creature."

Credence looked up briefly. "Excuse me, sir, but I took on your assignment only last week, sir," he corrected.

"Ah, of course, of course, things are so busy at MACUSA, I lose track of the time," said Graves dismissively, flicking his fingers. "Where have you looked?"

"I've talked mostly with the boys and girls who come around to Mary Lou's soup kitchen. There was one boy who threatened to punch me, but no one who seemed to fit with your description of an obscurial. I thought I might talk with more of the street kids from other neighborhoods west of us, and the newsboys that Fred knows," Credence reported to the pavement and dirt at his feet.

"Good lad," said Graves, and clapped Credence's back with one solid hand and left it there. Credence didn't like how it felt for some reason, heavy but not reassuring, but he didn't dare shrug it off and offend the man. "You keep looking for me and I'll see you next week, yes?"

Credence nodded, looking up into the face he dreamed about smiling proudly at him. He wasn't sure what more he could do. "Maybe I can check the orphanages and the Settlement House on Grand Street?" he suggested meekly to his boss.

"Yes, do that. I need you to keep looking for me, I know it’s nearby," said Graves, grabbing his chin and looking in his eyes. Credence felt dizzy from the gaze and closed his eyes against the vertigo and the feeling Graves was trying to peer into his soul.

"You will carry out your boss' orders," the man said insistently, and shook Credence a little until his eyes opened. He must have seen something dark and resistant flash across Credence's face because his grip gentled and his voice changed from authoritative to coaxing.

"Credence, I need this, I know you can do this-- for me." His fingers brushed up along Credence's sharp jawline to wrap firmly around the back of his neck, the way one would hold a restless dog. Credence closed his eyes again and swallowed hard, overwhelmed by the sensations of warm strong fingertips branding into his skin and the pinpricks of pain where the hair on the back of his neck was being pulled. "I could definitely offer you a good reward as an incentive, if you succeed..."

"Sir?" asked Credence, confused, opening his eyes. Despite the cool temperatures, he felt flushed all over.

Graves watched him, calculation and no kindness in his hard gaze. "You bring the child to me and I'll free you from that crazy no-maj woman once you finish the job, and I'll teach you some easy magic spells, how's that for a deal, eh?"

"Oh, sir, I don't know what to say, it's too much, it's all I ever wanted," said Credence finally, emotion choking his voice. He wasn't about to let such a chance escape him, he'd had too few lucky breaks to want to let this one-- to be with his Protector and learn magic-- get away from him.

"Can you find Modesty a new home too?" he said, belatedly, remembering his little sister and his promise to himself that if he escaped their hellish home life he'd get her out too, somehow.

"Perhaps. That's a conversation we can have another time," said Graves, temporizing.

Credence looked at him, confused. He'd told the older man only last week that he needed to make sure Modesty was safe from Mary Lou's beatings which was why he sometimes took the blame and the punishments himself.

Modesty was the main reason he stayed where he was. She was the only good and loving person in his world for all she had a rebellious streak and a temper, which he also quietly cherished. Surely Mr. Graves understood that Credence couldn't let himself be cared for and protected until he'd protected his little sister and made sure she was safe too.

"I'll see you next week, this time," Graves repeated and carelessly flipped a silver Peace dollar coin in Credence's direction, turned away and with a noise like a gunshot, disappeared from Credence's longing but perplexed gaze.

Credence went through his evening chores mechanically, his mind going over his brief encounter with Mr. Graves, trying to figure out why his instincts were screaming "Wrong! Wrong!" when the man he so admired had actually touched him, had stroked his face and told him to keep looking. He yearned to feel Mr. Graves' fingers on more of his skin, he thought, before he banished the sinful queer thought to the dark angry place inside himself where his forbidden desires and wishes went to hibernate.

Mr. Graves had dressed a little differently, boots with lacing on the side rather than polished brogues, and on his collar points were a linked pair of pins in the shape of scorpions with square green crystals as accents at the heads. But really, did that mean anything? It wasn't as though Credence changed his personality when he was subjected to one of Mary Lou's haircuts which severely trimmed his hair before it would start to curl at the ends.

Credence had never heard of polyjuice potion or he might have been more willing to entertain his suspicions about Mr. Graves being different. He at least had the excuse of ignorance.

Graves' aurors and his other associates, with the possible exception of Goldstein, didn't wonder or seem to notice their boss or colleague had changed as October and November slipped away. Perhaps he had become a little meaner, more impatient, but Graves kept to himself and was generally a loner, so the imposter had an easier time of it. Graves been shanghaied and another had slipped in, stealthily taken his place, and had started pulling strings...

It was seven weeks after his abduction before the real Mr. Graves was found, near dead, stashed in the basement of his building, locked into a magically expanded and warded basement space, chained to a cast iron water main pipe. The air was foul with the smell of unwashed human, waste and dark curses that had been cast in the small space. He had clearly been tortured by magic means and at Grindelwald's hands.

His dark eyes were unmistakable, but were now glazed with exhaustion, pain and trauma in a haunted pinched face. The advice of the medical experts was that he be left in the care of Medi-Wizards for a few weeks until he was able to start normally interacting with the rest of the world without panicking or hyperventilating. Had anyone asked Percival Graves, they would have realized that, wounded as he was, body and mind, their patient wasn't on board with this plan.


	7. Darkness and Glints of Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Auror Goldstein and Newt help Credence, Graves helps himself...

John 1:5 "And the light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not"

**December 7, 1926**

There was darkness/anger blotting out everything. Enraged, pushed to the breaking point by being called a freak by Shaw and threatened by Mary Lou when she found Modesty's wand, his obscurus had swallowed him up and taken over. Mary Lou it had batted like a children's rag doll against the chapel's rafters with a sickening crack and crushed Chastity under falling bricks and wood as it exploded out of the walls, heading west.

Formless, he had flown and seeped into cracks/swirled through subway tunnels like a tsunami. There had been green bolts of light hurting him and it seemed right/natural/instinctive to lash back with all his might, to bring down the walls and squash the creatures who would thwart him/them.

But two had kept talking to him, calling him/them a name that dimly, distantly, he knew he had been called most of his life. Part of him, the Credence part, concentrated until he had eyes and could see them-- Tina Goldstein and Mr. Graves with his false promises, uncaring caresses and lies. He casually slapped the wizard flat on the subway platform, knocking him out and turned, floating/focused on the other standing, calling him, holding her fire.

"Credence, come home with me, my friend Newt can help you, please Credence..."

Part of him drifted away, whirled her up in strands of power, plucked information about what/where home was from her brave/terrified mind and put the witch/himself There. There was a small kitchen where a carrot haired man in a royal blue coat sat at a table, dunking Oreo Sandwich Cookies in milk and feeding the crumbs to a green twig like creature perched on his shoulder.

"Newt!" Tina gasped, "Help Credence!"

Credence deposited her carefully into a chair and coalesced into a mostly human form, surrounded by dark shifting fog.

"Oh, there you are," Newt said, blinking. "Yes, well, come along Credence, there is another obscurus I know that you might wish to meet."

Curiosity/shock/acceptance, he thought he was the only one-- he floated after Newt, into a bedroom and down the stairs within a suitcase into a huge space. Sand dunes and blowing snow and inexplicable shapes filled part of the wizarding space. Felt familiar to part of him, the stuff of nightmares to the other part of him.

"Asima, I brought you a friend, could you carefully give me back his human part?" Newt asked, cajoling.

"Chaff/waste/weak," scoffed the dark cloud wavering near Newt like it wanted to be petted. It was more curious than threatening.

"Strong/jailer/free!" said Credence's obscurus, reaching tendrils out toward the other obscurus, unraveling from Credence like a mummy's bandages in a horror film, revealing the human form within.

Credence staggered with a gasp into Newt's arms, passing out cold as the parasite swiftly shed him like a locust its exoskeleton, uncaring about the human form it had once inhabited. A mist of dark and darker particles sped toward each other, spiraled together in a black sparkling and seethed before spinning away at alarming speeds across the sands, the dunes about them whispering and whirring with echoes of dozens of chittering voices telling secrets, learning of each other.

Newt levitated the unconscious Credence and carefully moved him up the stairs and out of the suitcase, cautious not to bump his head as they made their way up into the bedroom. Credence was placed on one of the twin beds. Tina brought Newt tea and a drank a cup of coffee herself before she headed back to work to help with the cleanup and to find out what had happened to her boss.

Newt sat watching the young man sleep, utterly exhausted by what he had undergone and writing up notes about what he'd witnessed between the two obscuruses. It certainly was a faster way to help the host than the half-successful ritual that had freed Asima's shadow, but had ultimately killed her human part.

**December 10, 1926 4:09 pm**

"This is entirely against my best medical advice, Director Graves," scolded the head medic. "While your body is starting to recover, the curses used on you were some of the Darkest magic and not all of the longer term side effects are well-known. And we haven't even discussed the shellshock from your captivity. "

"I can feed myself food and nutrition potions, I can wipe myself when I crap and I can swallow your pain decoctions until I feel better, so why the hell can't I leave your clutches?" said Graves menacingly, intruding into the healer’s personal space.

The expression on the security chief's face had cowed many a criminal, but had little impact on the mediwitch, who pursed her lips and shook her head disapprovingly. She had served in the magical Ambulance Corps during the Great War and was used to dealing with surly or mentally unbalanced wounded men.

"You need someone to keep an eye on you, your magic core will fluctuate wildly the next few weeks until your system is less stressed by the aftereffects of torture, starvation and trauma. It takes a lot of energy to fully complete your healing," she pointed out, flinching when Graves literally growled and his fingertips twitched, flicking a few sparks that scorched dark marks onto her recently disinfected floor.

He was damned if he was going to stay here, he thought, to be poked, prodded, babied and forced to be polite and talk with people. He'd gotten over his shell shock from what he'd seen during the Great War over the last six years and knew what helped. He cursed the Dark Wizard whose torture was forcing him to go through the painful process of pulling himself together again.

But he'd do it, he vowed. Aided by booze, losing himself in the other worlds of novels and whatever other distractions like no-maj moving pictures that would pull him away from his worst visions and memories. He needed, like a wounded animal, to get to his den, hole up and lick his wounds himself and just be safe and alone.

"I'll hire a goddamn nursemaid to baby me, now would you bring me the release papers to sign, please," said Graves emphatically, standing upright purely through willpower, cussedness and a burning desire to get out of MACUSA's health ward.

"I will be informing President Picquery that you will not be allowed to return to work full time for at least three months, dependent on your seeing a mind healer who clears you as safe to your coworkers and well-adjusted enough to resume your job. I'm not about to put a powerful loose cannon like you back into the fray without reassurances you won't break under the daily stresses of running MACUSA’s security," promised the mediwitch. She had no problem threatening him with the one person whom he fully respected and would usually listen to-- his boss, the President.

"Fine, yeah, do what you need to do, happy holidays to you too," snarled Graves, taking the shrunk potions vials and stabbing the quill's point into the final paper. He made sure to stay steady on his feet until he was out of her sight and in front of the nearest floo. He stumbled into his living room, threw up the wards and a silencing spell, crawled to his couch and slept for eighteen hours until his headache, body aches and a nightmare brought him completely awake, yelling.


	8. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence meets Queenie and Graves grapples with leftover trauma

Matthew 11:28 "Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy burdened, and I will give you rest."

**December 12, 1926  7:03 pm  
**

"C'mon sweetie, open up, have a nosh. It's from my bubbe's recipe, matzoh ball chicken noodle soup," Queenie coaxed, getting some nutrition into the young man in their guest room. She managed to get a decent amount down him and some water and a combination pain and sleep potion down his throat before she spelled him in a supine position again.

His bleary gaze met her eyes. "Wha--"

"It's okay, you're safe. You know my sister Tina Goldstein. I'm Queenie. No, really, you're safe here. Tina's friend Newt removed your obscurus. She's seeing him off at the docks, he's something of a wanted man here and he wanted to get home for Christmas in England, as much as he thought he might have a bit of crush on Tina and also wanted to stay."

He raised his eyebrows. "How long--"

"You have been asleep mostly for five days. It's December 12th, and seven at night."

"Like reading my mind, how--"

"Yes, I'm a legilmens, but I promise, I'm very good at keeping people's secrets. I'll try not to pry, but it's hard not to hear you when you're close by and thinking so goshdarn loudly."

"Sorry, Miss Goldstein."

"Queenie. I don't mind, sweet boy, I can tell there's nothing wrong and bad about you, of course you deserve to be fussed over, don't think that. Now, why don't you sleep and I'll make you a lovely breakfast when you're next awake and you and Tina can talk about what happened at the subway station and after."

"Night, Miss Queenie, thank you," murmured Credence as the potion took effect.

 

**December 13, 1926 2:18 a.m.**

Fuck. He'd yelled himself awake. That was a familiar one, he just hadn’t done that for several years before he’d been snatched by Grindelwald. He sat up on the couch, shuddering, downed two potions and floated a glass of water over from the kitchen into his hand. Damned if he didn't still feel like one of those no-maj steamrollers had run over him. Repeatedly.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself to schlep to the toilet. His mouth felt like a magpie had nested in it for several seasons and he smelled distinctly off despite the standard hospital cleansing spells they had used on his semi-conscious body. Just wonderful. He wasn't sure he had the energy to take a bath or shower right now. He wasn't sure he could stand not to.

His place still stunk like that bastard imposter who had stolen his face and identity. Even though he knew a small army of curse-breakers had cleaned up the basement and this apartment and freshened the air and thrown about cleaning charms, it still wasn't enough to soothe his jangled nerves that the bastard might get free again, take him again.

He wrenched his mind from those scary thoughts and made his way to the bathroom. He was MACUSA's head of security, dammit, not some silly boy crying homesick for Mommy and afraid during his first night at Ilvermorny, he thought angrily. He rubbed his tearful eyes and took several deep breaths to try and calm himself. He needed to remind himself of all the people he’d helped, all the duels he’d won, the number of criminals he’d apprehended with his team over the years.

It was a mistake to look in the mirror. It just confirmed he looked as bad as he felt. He needed a shave, his eyes were sunken, but his split lip was almost healed and various little wounds had faded to the purply-bruise stage. At least they'd taken care of his broken ribs, ruptured spleen and the broken bones, especially in his hands.

He uttered a shaving charm, took a leak and drank two more glasses of water. He would never take having access to enough clean water for granted again. A scourgify spell would have to do for now.

He made his way to his bedroom, vanished his old clothes to the void, grabbed pajamas, slippers and a robe and went back to the couch, which he enlarged and made softer. It was superstitious of him maybe to avoid his bed, but he'd been there, sleeping, when Grindelwald had snatched him. He wanted a completely new bed before he'd feel comfortable relaxing there.

With a surge of energy and determination to act, he returned to the bedroom and cast an eradication spell on all its contents, grabbed a fountain pen and paper and sent off an owl with his order for new bedroom furniture to McGinty's Magical Furnishings. They were famous for their furniture charms, even an entire household's necessities could be shrunk and delivered by their courier within 24 hours of the order being received.

Tomorrow night he would be sleeping in his new bed with his new carpet and new incidental furniture about him. He poured himself a small drink and sat watching the flames in the sitting room fireplace flicker until exhaustion claimed him once again.


	9. Nourishment and News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence learns about his family's fate, why Mr. Graves was so strange recently and how wizards send letters. Oh, and Queenie serves a hotsy-totsy breakfast.

Proverbs 15:30 Bright eyes gladden the heart; good news puts fat on the bones.

**December 13, 1926 7:45 a.m.**

He felt more clear headed in the morning. Drowsing, stretching, he realized he wasn’t cold. He was lying in a real bed, a soft mattress underneath him and a warm patchwork coverlet over him, and warm flannel pajamas covering his frame that smelled of oranges and lemons.

“Good morning Credence,” said Tina cheerfully from the doorway. “Queenie said you woke up and I should tell you breakfast will be ready in ten minutes.”

“Hello, Miss Goldstein,” said Credence hoarsely, sitting up and covering himself with the blanket.

“Clothes are on the chair there, Queenie can adjust them if they’re too baggy. Your old ones were completely shredded when your Obscurus was done with them. Would you like coffee, tea, cocoa, juice or something else?”

“Coffee, please,” replied Credence, remembering how Mr. Graves’s strong hands had wrapped around the mug at the diner where they had shared a lunch. So much had happened since then, it seemed like it was years, not two months ago. Where was Mr. Graves? Where was Modesty? He shot out of the bed, felt dizzy and was grabbed firmly by Tina by his upper arm.

“Whoa, easy, buddy, I’ll answer your questions over food,” she promised and closed the door behind her to give him some privacy.

Credence showed up seven minutes later, his face red from washing in cold water. They had three types of soap! A violet one, a pink rose one and a citrusy one that he suspected Mr. Scamander had left behind.

He bashfully looked into the kitchen only to see magic at work. Queenie was directing kitchen implements with the bravura air of a band conductor. Juice was pouring into glasses, toast being buttered, bacon flipping itself in a sizzling skillet. She flashed him a smile and flicked her wand at a chair near him that pulled itself out from the table, invitingly.

“Hi Credence, grab a seat. I promise not to hit you with the raspberry jam jar like I did Tina when we were children.”

“Oh… okay,” said Credence faintly, and slipped into the side chair. A mug half-full of coffee floated over and settled beside his plate.

“I put milk and sugar in it, you can see if you like it that way first,” said Tina, who was seated across the table from him, spooning scrambled eggs onto her dish.

Cautiously he tried the steaming beverage. It warmed him up and the sweetness of the sugar balanced out the bite of the coffee. “I think it’s good, thank you,” he said, venturing an opinion as three slices of bacon and two sunny-side eggs with a sprig of parsley appeared on his plate, followed by two slices of buttered toast.

He inhaled the intoxicating scents deeply in gratitude, and silently thanked god he wasn't dead or in jail and that he was having a good meal with kind people. He decided to skip praying out loud—he didn’t want to offend his hosts’ beliefs if they prayed differently, or not at all.

“Well, let me give you the short and sweet version. You remember being in the subway station and there being a battle, right?” Tina said, digging into her breakfast with an appetite.

Credence nodded and ate a forkful of bacon. “The police, um, Aurors, were using their wands on me/us they hit us with green light that stung him/hurt me.”

“Yes. You, the Obscurus part I mean, knocked Grindelwald out and grabbed me…”

“Who?” asked Credence, confused enough that he spoke with his mouth full of eggs, then blushed at his own lack of manners.

“That’s right, we learned Mr. Graves had been kidnapped back in October and Grindelwald had used polyjuice potion to impersonate him. We found Director Graves a few days ago, he’s in MACUSA’s medical ward recovering.”

Credence noticed she didn’t say what Mr. Graves needed to recover from. “And the fake Mr. Graves?” he asked nervously.

“Safe behind bars, we’re keeping a close eye on him, he’s a pretty powerful dark wizard and we don’t want him loose before we can try him in court here. Then we'll send him back to Germany to stand trial for his war crimes there.”

Credence’s eyes widened and his face turned paler than usual as he realized something. “I murdered people, I/we killed them…”

Queenie cut in fiercely, “You are not a murderer. That was self-defense, after years of abuse!”

“Who died besides Mary Lou and the Senator?” he asked dully. He had thought he might have a chance to be free and make his own decisions, and now the wizard equivalent of the electric chair, Old Sparky at Sing Sing, loomed in front of him.

“Your sister Chastity died,” said Tina looking at him sympathetically, "along with three aurors that I worked with. Thad Graymalkin, a trainee auror, was critically wounded by a spell Grindelwald launched at you that went astray-- he probably won’t pull through.”

Credence was in a daze. He’d killed seven people, injured dozens more with masonry, wind and magical force. His brain latched onto the one hopeful vital bit of information. “Modesty, though, she’s okay? Where is she? When can I see her?”

“Right now, you’re technically in my custody and under house arrest, per President Picquery’s orders pending your hearing,” said Tina, temporizing.

“So I can’t see her? Does she know I’m unhurt—she must be so scared!”

“She’s fine, she had some scrapes and bruises. The head mediwitch healed her broken arm and concussion. She’s staying with a nice couple in Bronxville, the Starkweathers, who emigrated here a few years ago from England. He’s a squib who teaches literature at Sarah Lawrence College and she’s a witch who works on my floor in the curse containment division. You can write Modesty a letter, I’ll have the owl wait for a reply.”

“Try a bit of orange juice, Credence honey, it’s fresh-squeezed,” urged Queenie, trying to distract him.

Tina, however, wanted to get business out of the way. “I’m sorry to have to ask you these things, but did you want to have a service for Chastity? There’s really nothing left to bury of Mary Lou,” she added bluntly. She for one, was glad the woman was obliterated by the fleeing Obscurus and wouldn’t pretend otherwise.

“I wouldn’t be able to attend since I’m arrested, right?”

Tina shook her head. “No, sorry, not while you're in my custody,” and bent her head back down to attend to her breakfast.

Credence thought a few minutes. “She could be buried out in Glendale where Mary Lou’s parents’ graves are, if there’s enough money,” he offered. “I’m not sure how much money there is in Mary Lou’s bank account, she kept track of everything herself. Sometimes she gave Chastity or Modesty a nickel now and then when they recruited a lot a street kids.”

“I’ll make a note to have that checked into, anything else?” asked Tina.

He looked at Tina. “Do I need to answer anything else, Miss Goldstein, or can I write to Modesty now, please?”

“Of course!” said Queenie and a few paper airplanes swooped in and landed in front of him as his plate floated away. The planes flattened out their folds, looking untouched and uncreased. “Pencil, quill or pen?” she asked, holding a selection of writing implements that had appeared in her clasped hands out to him like a bouquet.

“A fountain pen is fine, Miss Queenie, thank you,” said Credence. He wrote a short note to his sister to say he had just woken up, he was okay and he was glad she was healing and getting to know some nice magical people…

He looked up. “Could Modesty perhaps visit me?”

“I’ll have to clear it, maybe next week,” said the auror, trying to play by the rules.

Credence finished his note: “I’ll see you as soon as I can, right now they want to make sure that I’m safe since I was the magical child everyone was looking for. A bad wizard who’s now in jail impersonated Mr. Graves with some potion and tried to trick me. They got rid of the black cloud in me that killed Mary Lou, so please don’t be frightened of me. Write back soon and let me know how you’re doing. Be good for your foster parents, Testy. Much love, your brother, Credence."

He addressed the envelope with care to Miss Modesty Barebone and Tina wrote out the rest of the Starkweathers' address.

Queenie put two bent fingers to her lips and blew a shrill whistle. A small owl appeared at the kitchen window, accepted a treat, let the note be attached to its leg and flew off northwards.

“Hmm, he should be back in a few hours, tops,” said Queenie, in satisfaction. “I’ll leave the window cracked for him with a heating charm so the drafts don’t get in.”

“She’s the bee’s knees when it comes to stasis charms and household spells,” confided Tina. “If homemaking things were up to me, we’d be living like savages in a hut.”

Credence nodded, unsure of what to say. He wondered what it would be like to have a sibling close to his own age like the Goldstein sisters were.

“Queenie needs to go to work and I want to check up on Mr. Graves. Would you be okay with being locked in here and left along for a little while? Maybe four or five hours?” asked Tina.

“Locked up where?” asked Credence nervously, wondering if he really had an option to say no.

“Oh, the apartment, I know it’s not that big, but we do have books and a radio that gets a few no-maj stations and some cards and crossword puzzles to pass the time.”

“Sure, that’s okay,” said Credence, realizing he wouldn’t be tied up or gagged. He didn’t like small enclosed spaces very much, having been squashed into dark nasty closets as a child until he got big enough to be beaten.

“Credence, she wants you to amuse yourself while we’re away. You can use the bathroom and eat something when you get hungry at lunch. This isn’t a test of obedience or a trick to get you punished,” said Queenie, addressing his internal, but not so private fears, as she put on a coat with a fur collar and green leather gloves which matched the color of the feather in her jaunty hat.

“Yes, Miss Queenie,” agreed Credence hesitantly.

“Do you need to take my blood or spit or something?” he inquired, turning to Tina, rolling up his shirt-sleeve and stretching out his arm.

Both sisters looked shocked, so he guessed not.

“Nothing Dark like that!” promised Queenie, recovering her voice first.

“Take a nap if you want, I’ll try not to take too long,” said Tina, surprised at how readily Credence expected to be hurt and lose blood.

Tina's definition of custody seemed a very loose one to Credence, but what did he know about how wizards treated murderers.

“Not a murderer, self-defense,” chided Queenie, patting his cheek in farewell. She smelled of roses.

They left him soon after, telling him if he accidentally touched the wards he might feel a slight electric shock that would push him back a few feet, but that was it. Credence was trained to obey, so he scrupulously avoided the windows, the door out of the apartment and the kitchen window where the post owl could be expected to land.

He found some wizard children’s books on a bottom shelf and settled in to read a well-thumbed copy of “Twice Told Tales from Tituba" that had both Tina and Queenie’s names printed carefully in the front of the book in large childish capital letters. He got most of the way through three stories before he fell asleep on their couch.


	10. Friends in High Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves' long bath is interrupted by a Presidential visit...

**December 13, 1926 8:42 a.m.**

He felt worse later in the morning, when he awoke again, at least until he remembered the potions the mediwitch had sent home with him. A calming drought, a pepper-up potion and a general restorative downed in quick succession made him feel, if not human, something approaching a vertebrate rather than a spineless blob.

The promise of coffee proved the magic elixir that finally got him upright. He managed to draw himself a bath and lay for a long in it, letting his mind wander and periodically refreshing the water with hot infusions and sandalwood bath oils until he started to finally feel clean. He floated in a plate of buttered toast and a bowl of applesauce, the only two things that sounded vaguely appealing to his shrunken stomach.

Sometime after 10:30, when he usually went on his mid-morning break at work for a walk around the block and maybe a cigarette, he was debating whether a three hour bath might make his fingertips look appreciably more pruney than a two hour one. He never was able to resolve that mystery because there was a banging at his front door and then the annoying sound of his perimeter wards being transgressed. At least the alarm indicated it was a friendly invasion, not the German wizard returned, intent on revenge.

He looked up as an eagle patronus manifested itself on his closed toilet lid. “Director Graves, you will be downstairs, decently attired and explaining to me why the hell you aren’t recovering under a healer’s direct care in ten minutes, or I shall reassign you to Guam to count illegally traded lizard parts!”

Graves shuddered. There were a lot of lizards, legal and illicit, in Guam and President Seraphina Picquery, Ma’am was someone you didn’t cross without a damn good reason. He’d known that since eighth grade at Ilvermorny where, as a sixth grader, she’d whipped his ass at Dueling one week and then wiped the pitch in the Quodpot house semifinals with the rest of his shivering remains the following week.

A lesser man would have declared his undying enmity and become her chief rival until graduation, but Percy Graves was made of sterner, less teenage-impetuous stuff. Maybe he had also inherited a touch of foreseeing along with his mother's dark eyes, as well.  He sucked up his wounded pride, complimented her on her wicked backhand stroke that won the match and knocked him off his broom and into unconsciousness and he started making friends with her by practicing spells together. He could tell she was a force to be reckoned with, even at twelve and three-quarters. There was no telling what she, or better yet, what they together, might accomplish when they were fully grown.

“On my way, Fee,” he promised, using her old middle-school nickname just to piss her off a little and to remind her they went way back. He stood up, grabbed a towel and started to dry his hair and body under the assessing eyes of the raptor before casting a few light drying spells to finish up.  The patronus eyed his privates like it would a particularly succulent rabbit. “Do you mind? It isn’t like you haven’t seen my tackle before when she and I got drunk and fooled around.”

The eagle let out a mocking, ball shriveling screech and vanished with his reply. Graves shuddered a little and sighed. The damage any one of those talons could do in a sensitive place… He pulled on his clothes and threw on some slippers and made his way downstairs.

There he found the President of MACUSA, Seraphina Picquery herself, sitting comfortably in his favorite armchair, smoking a clove cigarette in a very long lavender bakelite holder. What was worse, was that she was flanked by an equally focused Tina Goldstein in the matching chair. They appeared to be having a pleasant, but quite intent conversation, conspiring against him in his own sitting room.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, ladies,” he said, attempting a degree of civility to the pair who had just gate crashed his home.

“You!” said Tina accusingly, standing up and putting a finger in his face. “I go to the ward to talk with you about being reinstated from my demotion by Grindelwald,” she spat the name, “and you aren’t there and haven’t been for nearly two days, they tell me. "

Graves attempted to get a word in edgewise, but that would have required a chisel and mallet.

“Your healer is worried sick, you are supposed to check in with her this morning and you ignored all the owls and pigeons that she sent asking for further information. You need someone looking after you and by Bishop and Proctor’s ghosts, I’m almost tempted to kidnap you myself and do the job right. Because I’m telling you straight, sir, you look like a victim from the seventh circle of Dante's hell--”

Graves tiredly pushed her finger away and broke off her tirade. “What a nudge you are. Fine, I’ll see about your reinstatement when I come back to work next Monday. Just go away and don’t push me, Goldstein.”

“Not happening, Percy,” said President Picquery firmly, stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette in a silver ashtray at her elbow. “No work for you for a while, even if I have to use immobilus on you. The healer told you when you signed the release from the ward papers that you wouldn’t be working for at least three months, would need rest and to see a mind healer for testing. Then you'll pass fitness and duelling tests before I agree to let you back out in the field.”

Graves started to squawk about his fitness to serve when his superior held up a hand. “Don’t even try to best me. You are very able and a strong wizard, but you are no Merlin. You must heal completely before you come back to work, Perce.”

“Don’t do this, Fee, you know I have to stay busy or I’ll go bonkers! Ask Goldstein, she’ll tell you what a joy I am to work with if it’s a slow day at security—I get the heebie-jeebies. There’s a reason I always work during full moons, you know.”

“If you’re that determined to have something to do, I think I have a job you can do for me,” said the President, with a side glance at the Auror at her side.

“What’s that, then?” challenged Graves. Picquery almost always got her way, but it didn’t mean he had to throw up a white flag without a bit of a fight. He wasn't a boot-licking junior appointee, they went way back and were always friends, though not usually intimate ones, and sometime allies politically. Graves was the stern enforcer of the laws Picquery and her congressional supporters got passed.

“Please, sit down,” said the President, transforming the ashtray into a wing backed armchair that swooped behind him, bumped his legs out from under him at the knees and dumped him into its well-padded plum colored cushions. He imagined it almost purred with satisfaction at his easy defeat.

“Now, Miss Goldstein has been given temporary custody of a prisoner, powerful but untrained. In light of your department’s short-staffing, I want her back on active duty in security and you watching this man for me, making sure he’s not a threat anymore, to anyone.”

“Babysitting some ally of Grindelwald’s who showed up while I was hidden away like something in the Valley of the Kings?” sneered Graves. "No thank you."

“Not a knowing ally. The Hun, thank the blessed Giles Corey, didn’t realize what he had in one of his informants.”

“It’s Credence Barebone, sir,” said Tina, taking pity on her bewildered boss.

“He was the obscurial?! Some healer told me you were kidnapped by it, but got away and I assumed it was hunted down and killed?”

“Umm, not exactly,” she said with a guilty look in the President’s direction. “My friend Newt Scamander, the Magizoologist, had another obscurus and he convinced Credence’s parasite to… let him go, in exchange for a friend? mate? Newt wasn’t precisely sure the nature of obscurus relationships…” she trailed off.

“So you’ve had an obscurus’ former host stashed at your place, tidy as you please?” he asked, dangerously. “Do you have any idea how many regulations you’ve broken?” He made a mental note to assure himself that once Scamander's creatures were under control, the British wizard would deported via a swift boat east with a one way ticket out of the U.S. and out of Graves' bailiwick.

“Cleared by me, Percy, so don’t get your scarf in a noose,” pointed out the President. "Remember, I bought it for you."

“He’s very quiet, and not much trouble. I don’t want him to be lonely while Queenie and I have to be at work,” pleaded Tina, fiddling with her wand.

Graves sat and thought about it, remembering the lonely soul at the diner who was as pleased by their conversation as he was by the chocolate cake. “All right, as long as you’ve explained to him about Grindelwald stealing my face and job. I don’t want him terrified of me due to whatever that bastard, pardon my French, subjected him to…”

“Excellent,” said the President with the brisk air of someone who has more pressing business at hand. “There are some were-alligators in Florida being upset by their territory being taken over by no-Maj land deals right now whom we need to appease before I have a caucus of aggrieved Creatures on my hands. Graves, Auror Goldstein will deliver the former obscurial to your custody no later than 2 pm this afternoon and then report to the acting head of Security for her new assignment.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tina happily. She had spent weeks in the wand permit office and hadn’t issued a single license. A demented witch in her 180s had lost her wand recently somewhere around headquarters, but her family wasn't sure it was safe for her to have one in her constant possession anyway. Boredom didn't begin to describe it.

“Understood, Madam President,” said Graves, less cheerfully than his one-time subordinate.

With a nod to each of them, and a dire warning to Graves to take all his potions or face her wrath, President Picquery removed herself from the townhouse and apparated away.

“Bring or send me the full report on the Barebones, will you? I need to know what I missed while I was imprisoned and what that imposter was up to with the New Salemers,” said Graves to Tina.

“Sure thing, sir, I’ll have it to you this evening. See you about 1:30, Mr. Graves.”

True to her word, Tina rang his doorbell at 1:15, with a hunched specimen of humanity trailing unhappily in her wake. Graves spelled the door open for them and waited in the sitting room, so Credence wouldn’t feel as trapped as he would in the entry hall. She pulled an unresisting Credence in behind her.

“I promise you on my magic, he’s okay, Credence, it’s really my boss, not the fake Mr. Graves. The president herself visited him with me this morning.”

Graves deliberately kept his posture relaxed and unthreatening, his hands in plain view. If he thought of this as similar to talking down a jumper or a hostage crisis needing calm, no fast movements, it should be okay. The dangerous obscurus part of the man was gone. Instead, a trembling figure in a plain but new black suit, clutching a new homburg hat in his restless hands stood shaking slightly on his oriental carpet.

“Welcome to my home, Credence. Would you like coffee or chocolate cake like we had at the Luxor diner?”

The almond shaped eyes darted up to take him in, then dropped back to his equally new boots. “No, thank you, Mr. Graves, I had a sandwich for lunch,” he replied softly.

“Oh! I almost forgot, Queenie sent me with this for a snack, and we’ll send you meals for the next week or two so that you can both get your strength back,” said Tina, as she unshrunk a white bakery box, labelled Kowalski’s Fine Bread and Pastries. She also enlarged a suitcase and set it beside Credence.

“Thank you, Goldstein, and please tell your sister thanks and it was swell of her to think of us,” said Graves, remembering his manners and tearing his gaze away from the miraculous former Obscurial.

“Miss Goldstein?” asked Credence. “Can you give Modesty my new address, I wouldn’t want her to worry, will you tell the owl to bring her letter here?”

“Of course I will,” she said warmly, and with a pop that made Credence jump, she apparated back to work.


	11. An Afternoon Tour and Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence is given the nickel tour of Graves' house and they discuss their plans for the next day

**December 13, 1926 1:31 pm**

Graves stood watching Credence, waiting for the young man to raise his head again. After a few minutes Credence dared to glance up, comparing the tired looking, bruised man in front of him with his memories of the last time, not that long ago, when he had seen the well-dressed wizard up close in the alleyway where he reported on his continuing futile attempts to find the obscurus.

“You okay there, kid?” he asked gruffly, when Credence’s glance turned into an intent searching look of his face. He shifted, his bad leg paining him. Time for more bone restorative potion in another hour or so.

“She’s right, you’re different from Him. He didn’t care, even though he sometimes tried to fake it. I could feel he was impatient and angry despite the fact he said all the right words. The first two times I met you, I mean the real you, you were calm and patient and-- kind, even though you said it was really important to find the obscurus."

Graves couldn’t help shuddering at the thought of his evil twin manipulating someone as wounded and hungry for attention as Credence.

“It’s okay, Mr. Graves, he didn’t hurt me, really. I mean—he didn’t hit me. I just was really confused why you seemed different and didn’t listen to me and forgot some things I had told you about Modesty. He had me looking for the obscurus, but since he said it was a little kid, I never thought that the dark fog and blackouts where I lost time meant it could be me.”

Graves felt about three inches tall, that this young man was trying to comfort him. That was the role he was used to playing, not the one being comforted. He was sworn to protect and defend and with Credence he'd failed miserably, done a crap-all job.

“Credence, I’m so sorry you were dragged into this… mess. I hope I can at least partly make it up to you. Let me show you the guest room you're going to be in, I think you’ll like the view.”

He took Credence’s suitcase and led him upstairs and partway down a hall. He pushed open a door and Credence took in a well-lit room with south facing oriel windows letting in thin winter sunlight and a west facing window that looked out toward the bridge spanning the Hudson River to New Jersey. The room contained a large bed with a plush coverlet, a wardrobe, a bookcase full of books with gilt lettering on their spines and a roll top desk and chair on casters. A wool rug in reds and blues covered the wide plank floor and a small festive brass vase of holly and ivy sat on a side table by the bed.

“Well?” he asked finally as Credence turned around, taking in the dark well-polished wood of the late Victorian furniture, the lack of dust on the windows, the understated but refined ornaments and oil paintings of the Hudson River Valley that spoke of wealth that went back generations.

“It’s wonderful,” Credence said softly. “But I don’t need to take up the space in your best guest room, sir.”

“It’s my smallest and most plainly furnished one,” retorted his host. “Leave your suitcase here and I’ll prove it to you, give you the nickel tour.”

He showed Credence his other two guest rooms, which were indeed more lavishly appointed, one even having its own attached, en suite bathroom. “There’s a bathroom just next to your bedroom for your use,” he pointed out.

“This is my room if there’s some emergency and you need my help,” he gestured, opening the door.

Shyly Credence stuck his head inside. Instead of the older Victorian furniture that was in the other rooms, this one was modern and masculine. A streamlined curving bed with inlaid ebony wood, mother of pearl and silver metal with gunmetal grey and blue sheets dominated the room. A bronze statuette of a muscled male nude standing on his toes with his arms outstretched, head thrown back and an inscription on the base reading "Dedication to Service" sat on the mantle. A new carpet and sitting area chairs with a mirrored side table completed the decor.

“I wanted to get something different from all those antiques I inherited,” Graves explained. Credence looked at him patiently, sure there was more than a passing impulse to furnishing a single room in such a modern style. Graves huffed out a sigh and confessed, "I couldn't stand to sleep in my old bed where I got snatched by Grindelwald. The bastard had slept in it as well. I had to get something new his filthy hands hadn't touched. McGinty's delivered it earlier this morning. Well, that’s it for upstairs,” he finished awkwardly. “C’mon, and see the rest.”

Credence shoved his hands in the pockets of his new suit jacket and followed the other man downstairs, thinking about how Mr. Graves had been hurt by Grindelwald too. The bruises fading on his face were only the tip of the iceberg.

The rest of the house consisted of a large kitchen with a pantry, a dining room with a large table that could easily seat a dozen people and two rooms that seemed to serve no particular purpose. There was a small office that clearly Mr. Graves spent much time in. “Stay out of here unless I explicitly invite you in past the wards, please,” the auror warned. Credence shrank back three feet in case the wards decided on their own that he was a threat. Lastly, there was a library.

Credence stared. “Jeez, you should have stone lions guarding this place.”

“Huh? Oh, you mean like the No-Maj library on 42nd where the Reservoir used to be when I was a nipper. It’s pretty good sized home library for the city, I guess. Feel free to read whatever you like, I’ve got magic and no-maj authors. If there’s something you want, I’m sure I can track it down for you,” offered the older man. “Oh, and I get the major papers—the NY Ghost, the Foggy Bottom Phantom and on Saturdays the Chicago wizarding paper, The Daily Blaze.”

Credence turned around, looking at the mezzanine level and the spiral staircase that wound up to that level. “Gosh, how could you read all these books?” he blurted out, and then shrank back, waiting to be cuffed for his rudeness.

Graves ignored his flinching and gave him a wry smile. “When I can’t sleep, I read, and yeah, we wizards live a good long while, but I don’t expect I’ll read more than a fraction of these books in my life. There are more at my family’s home further upstate.” He noticed Credence shot a look at his hands. They had a few fresh scars thanks to Grindelwald, but no broken fingers, anymore.

“Family? Is there a Mrs. Graves?” the young man asked, feeling daring. So far none of the careless harshness or simmering anger that had characterized his interactions with the other Graves, no Grindelwald, in the last two months had shown itself in this largely stoic man.

“No, my mother died about twelve years back. She didn’t want to live long without my father, I suspect.”

“Do you have children, sir?” Credence ventured another question. He didn’t see how Mr. Graves could mind him and not neglect his family.

“Oh! I see what you mean. No kids or wife for me. I’m happy to stay single. I like to say that work keeps me as busy as a wife and little ones and that she’s a jealous mistress. My sister Tabitha and her husband Xanthus have two boys, twins, in the seventh grade at Ilvermorny. I spoil them, show them a good time on Broadway and Coney Island or another tourist attraction with Uncle Percy for a weekend every couple of months and then send the little hellions home.”

He thought about Credence’s family. There was a post owl Credence was waiting for from his sister. “Do you have a girl you like, Credence?” he wondered aloud. “I hope she’s not a no-maj, our laws don't allow for friendships or relationships between maj and no-maj folks.”

Credence shook his head vigorously. “Mary Lou…” he began, before remembering she was dead and couldn’t touch him from beyond the grave. He swallowed hard. In a voice so faint Graves had to lean in to hear him, Credence said, “Please don’t ask me about that stuff, sir. I’m a sinner with impure thoughts and a wizard and now, I’m a- a- murderer.”

“That wasn’t you, that was the obscurus, the parasite that was in you,” retorted Graves.

“It felt like me, sir,” said Credence doggedly. “There were times I was angry enough I could have killed someone, especially Mary Lou, or hungry enough to have stolen something.”

“But you didn’t,” argued Graves. “You knew it was wrong. The creature inside you didn’t understand people’s laws or morals.”

“I guess so,” said Credence, “but I couldn’t stop it from happening, I wasn’t strong enough to keep it from hurting people, killing people and that was wrong. It makes me guilty of murder. "

His host sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose and winced as he touched a healing bruise. He indicated a sofa nearby. “Please sit down, Credence, let’s talk.”

The young man dropped to the couch like he’d been hit with a sniper’s bullet.

Graves summoned a mug of hot chocolate for Credence and an Irish coffee for himself. Never mind it was barely mid-afternoon, he would need fortification for this discussion, wherever it went. It would be, he feared, the first of many attempts to try and break through the guilt instilled in Credence for even existing.

He placed the mug on a coaster and pushed it across the table in front of the sofa in Credence’s direction. “That’s yours, drink it or don’t, your call,” he suggested.

Credence peered up past his bangs and stayed motionless, head down, like a mouse waiting to see which way a cat would chase him.

Graves mentally shook himself. This wasn’t an impetuous trainee needing a dressing down, but a traumatized man who seemed like a child in so many ways despite his chronological age. Well, he was a newborn in the world of magic, certainly. Fear was a completely rational response to all he’d been through in the last few months.

He took a sip of Irish coffee, sighed in contentment and forced himself to assume a casual pose, slumping a bit to mirror Credence’s posture.

“I know it will take time for us to get used to each other, sharing living quarters. I didn't have much say one way or the other about this, you know.  I agreed I would help you when I heard you had survived. The President herself decided we would be her two birds felled with one stone.”

“Sir?” Credence asked, befuddled. It was definitely odd to think of the President of the United States, or well anything that important being a "herself." But this was a magical world where people could disguise themselves as someone else with a potion and a bit of hair. Compared to that and the stories he heard about Newt's creatures, a female President was hardly something unusual. He reminded himself he had a lot to learn about this new world, if they didn't kill him soon as punishment for murdering their cops--aurors, he amended.

“You need a minder, a keeper until MACUSA accepts that the obscurus is gone from you and it alone was responsible for the tragic deaths that occurred. MACUSA also needs convincing by the President that I wasn’t in a conspiracy with Grindelwald. You need someone to introduce you to magic, and I need something to do until Madam President feels I have rested and healed enough to return to my job heading up Magical Security. Since we both have free time, she decided we’d be the answer to each other’s needs and, more importantly, not become political liabilities to her."

“Oh,” said Credence, still a bit confused. He got the gist of what Mr. Graves meant, but he couldn’t imagine how he was the solution to anyone’s question or problem, but he wasn’t about to argue with a President of anything, much less magical America. Thinking about what else his companion had said, he took up the mug and took an experimental sip. It was chocolatey, creamy with bubbles, just the right temperature to warm one up on a December afternoon.

“Will I get a wand, sir? Please, will you teach me magic?” he looked over at Graves, his eyes hopeful. It would be wonderful to spend lots of time with the man, getting to know him.

“Sure, course I will,” promised Graves, a bit distracted. A small smudge of cocoa glistened on Credence’s full lower lip. Unconsciously, the pink tip of his tongue wiped it away.

Graves shifted, trying to ease the sudden tightness of his trousers and downed more of his doctored coffee. “We’ll need to get you more clothes, shoes, supplies and textbooks, but first, a wand," he said, strategizing out loud.

“I don’t want to be a bother and expense, sir. My suit is new, and fits, thanks to Miss Queenie. You’ll be housing and feeding me. Can I clean or do something to earn my keep?”

“Actually, Queenie Goldstein is going to be feeding us our suppers for a few weeks and she’s a damn fine cook, as you’ve reason to know. You’ll be busy learning, that’s your job and your way of earning your keep. You're not guilty of murder, that's why you're not being kept in a jail cell, but instead under my supervision.”

“Breakfast this morning was…” words failed Credence at his memory of the amazing meal that seemed far more than seven hours ago.

“Exactly. And once you get used to regular meals and decent portions you’ll find you’re eating more. A lot of energy from your bigger meals will go towards your magic use, once you start learning how to channel it.”

Credence’s mind was still fixed on how indebted he was to Mr. Graves. He didn't see why the man was so adamant that Credence was innocent of murder, but he set that aside to think about later when his head wasn't spinning from all the new things that were happening to him, one right after the other. He’d forgotten about his tin of treasures he had stashed away until now. With some of his money, he could get Mr. Graves a new scarf for Christmas (did wizards even celebrate no-maj holidays?) and something for Modesty, Tina and Queenie.

“Am I allowed to leave your house with you? Could we go by the alley on Pike Street tomorrow? I want to get presents and my savings are hidden there,” he explained.

“Sure. Was Christmas something Mary Lou let you kids celebrate?”

“Not really, aside from some extra food and singing carols at the service. We three used to give each other little things we’d made as gifts, but once Chastity became Mary Lou’s snitch a few years ago that stopped. One of my favorite things about the holidays is seeing the displays in the department store windows,” he offered.

“We could do that tomorrow—go see the no-maj toys and decorations. Then go see what the wizarding stores have on display for Yule, since we have shopping to do anyway,” declared Mr. Graves. "How does that sound, Credence?"

"Just fine, Mr. Graves," said Credence, in agreement, and dedicated himself to finishing his cocoa while the auror sat nearby, planning a course of study and half hoping, half dreading that the tiny pink tongue tip might lick that innocent mouth clean of chocolate again.


	12. Letters and Longing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence and Graves share apple turnovers and talk about bravery and Modesty's letter.

An owl’s hoot sounded over their heads.

Credence looked up, startled.

“Mail delivery,” said Mr. Graves, drawing out his wand and intoning a spell that dispensed some owl treats and freed the letter from the courier bird's leg.

“Hold out your hands,” he instructed Credence. Shyly, the young man held out his hands, revealing palms crisscrossed with more thin white scars than he had had two months ago when Graves had healed him at the diner. An envelope addressed to Credence appeared mid air and drifted lazily down into his grasp. Another thick manila envelope from Tina Goldstein addressed to Director Graves was banished to his office with a flick of his wand. He would examine the report about the Barebone clan and Credence later when Credence wasn’t awake.

“It’s from Modesty!” said Credence happily, recognizing the handwriting. “May I open it?”

Graves waved his hand in a negligent go-ahead gesture. Credence carefully opened it up and read it out loud as Mary Lou made them do for Bible study.

“Dear Dence,  
How are you and where are you? Are you still in the city? I know it’s wrong, but I’m glad Mary Lou was killed. I’m not sure how I feel about Chastity. She was our sister but she was pretty mean to both of us a lot of times.

Mr. and Mrs. Starkweather are very nice. He’s a really good cook and has an Erb Garden in a green house. He’s going to let me help him garden. Their grey and white cat is named Grimalkin and he purrs very loudly when I scratch his chin. Mr. Starkweather has been home with me since it’s Christmas break at the school where he teaches. He has a wand, he showed it to me and he is called a squid (here the word squid was crossed through and the word squib squeezed in). He says he can’t do as much magic as Mrs. Starkweather. So I’ll get to see more magic tonight!  
Have you seen your Mr. Graves? The wizard you liked a lot?"

Here Credence paused and shot a look at the man at the other end of the sofa.

“Your Mr. Graves?” he inquired, raising his thick eyebrows in a surprised question.

Credence nodded. “I told Modesty about how you healed me at the diner and were so kind and generous to me that first meeting.”

Graves sputtered into the dregs of his Irish coffee. Kind and generous were definitely not adjectives he would expect anyone to use to describe him. He was ambitious and driven, generally a by-the-book enforcer of laws and a fair boss. Being soft and generous weren’t called for in his job description or necessary in his personal life. But he wanted to be kind to Credence and give him his time and attention and lovely and useful things to make up for the massive neglect life and most people had shown him thus far.

He cleared his throat. “You know, Credence, what you consider generous might be just basic decency,” he suggested, trying to give him a different viewpoint.

Credence thought that over. “Maybe. But also I’ve learned to get by on just a little. My life’s treasures are held in my heart and memory and a metal box about the size of a cigar box.”

Graves felt something clench inside him at those simple heartfelt words. He wondered what the boy had in his tin box and why he'd saved those things.

“I insist you have one of those apple turnovers Tina left with us as a snack, to put some meat on your bare bones.”

Credence wrinkled his nose in amusement at the word play and said, “Shall I finish reading, sir? There’s only a little more.”

Graves nodded, still mulling over the phrase “Your Mr. Graves,” while Credence read the rest of the letter.

“I hope you see him again, so you can tell his policemen thank you from me for magicking the fallen bricks and wood off me. When can I see you? I’ve told Mr. Starkweather and Grimalkin about you and they want to meet the best big brother in the world. Love, Modesty."

Credence was silent afterwards, his gaze turned to his lap. He carefully refolded the letter, pensively placed it in its envelope and put it in a pocket. Graves flicked his wand and the promised pastry and a new full cup of cocoa appeared in front of Credence who took a few careful bites and sips and then quietly confessed to the other man.  “I don’t miss Chastity either. She might have been good and obedient, but she wasn’t kind. Modesty has a temper, but she’s kind. It’s strange not seeing her every day, I’ve been watching out for Testy since she was a toddler, trying to teach her notice things outside of what Mary Lou wanted her to notice, and how to remember what Mary Lou wanted us to forget.”

“You know that you didn’t have to read that aloud to me, either. A man's allowed to keep some things private about himself.” He thought about all the things he kept private due to his job, his security clearance and his personality-- it was easier to number the stars in the heavens.

“I’m sorry to bother you with my troubles, sir. Mary Lou hated us keeping secrets from her. But I don’t want to keep secrets from you.”

“It might feel strange at first, but you can choose what you want to do here. Practice with small things first and then build up to bigger decisions. I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, but I don’t want you to feel like you’re a prisoner trapped here with no privacy and no say as to what you prefer.”

“Mr. Graves, I’m a sinner who murdered people and is ignorant about witches. I don’t think I’d be good at choosing what I want for myself, I don't usually know what I want. I might hurt other people again. I definitely don’t want that.” He saw that the auror looked sad and a little annoyed. Credence shrunk back into the sofa cushions, pushing away the half-eaten turnover. Maybe he had gone too far in sharing some of his thoughts with this man who invited his confidences.

"Credence, please look at me?” If it was an order, then it was one of the most gently requested ones Credence had obeyed in his life.

“Yes, sir?” he said, raising his eyes to meet the warm brown ones. He was relieved that the older man didn't seem that upset with him.

Graves awkwardly reached for his hand, the warm fingers wrapping around Credence’s slightly longer, cool ones and squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“You are a good person. You are worthy and strong—did you know that there’s never been a wizard who lived with an obscurus as long as you have, in all of recorded history? That means you’re likely going to be a powerful wizard once you are trained.”

“Could—could I be as strong as you are?”

“At least. Maybe even better. You endured eighteen years of torture from Mary Lou and Grindelwald broke me in a matter of mere weeks,” he admitted ruefully. Credence tightened his grip in sympathy.

With that one act the dark wizard had undermined his professional pride, one of the most important things in his life, considered Graves. His mind and will which he'd thought were strong and well shielded had ripped like a paper screen under the concerted ongoing physical and psychic assaults of the more powerful magician.

“I could never think of you as weak or broken, Mr. Graves,” said Credence sincerely and impetuously put his other hand over his own and Mr. Graves’ clasped ones. “I want to be brave, like you, not scared of everything new in my life that you show me,” he said earnestly.

“You’ve sure as hell had a lot of new things to deal with lately,” said the older man, slowly tugging his hand back. Auror Graves was not the spoony hand-holding sort. He summoned an apple turnover for himself, downed the bone-replenishing potion with nary a flinch, and gulped coffee to get rid of the nasty aftertaste. “You’ll learn at least the basics of magic from me, and soon you won’t be able to call yourself ignorant any more. What I’m trying to say, Credence, is you’re already brave. You protected Modesty and Chastity from Mary Lou beating them.”

“That’s not bravery,” scoffed Credence. “That’s just endurance. Even if you want to die sometimes, your heart just keeps beating.”

“That’s bravery. You made a choice that you would live to protect your sister. You didn’t jump off a bridge or high building to kill yourself, or stop trying to be a good person or run away. You didn’t turn to alcohol or drugs to escape your day to day life. You dealt with it as best you could, and stayed and that’s brave, especially because you were abused.”

“I escaped sometimes,” ventured Credence, looking up at Mr. Graves’ tired face. “The public libraries let almost anyone in, so I could sit and read about Horatio Alger and Sherlock Holmes and famous people who did good things like President Lincoln and Jane Addams. And when I didn’t have time to go to the library because I had flyers to hand out, I had one other escape,” he trailed off, and a small shy smile curled around the edges of his mouth.

“Oh, what?” asked his companion. He passionately wanted to know what could bring an almost smile to Credence’s plush lips.

“I searched for witches and signs of magic in the city, including glimpses of you and Tina, of course, after I'd met you. I looked for coins and other special things to add to my box of treasures and memorized things I'd heard, seen and read, not just bible verses."

Graves shook his head, marveling at Credence's inner resources, his desire to squeeze as much as he could learn and experience out of his formerly bleak and barren existence. "You truly are a marvel, Credence, for so many reasons. I'm glad I'm getting to hear some of what you went through and what goes on in your head."


	13. Family Lore and Wand Lore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence learns a bit of Graves family history, some basic spells, and a wand finds him...

**December 13, 1926 2:55 pm**

Credence gave a small amused snort. “Lots of things go on in my head, a lot of them foolish. What are you thinking about, sir?”

“I need to figure out how to circumvent the whole no wand without a permit rule so you can have a wand with which to learn magic. I don’t want MACUSA getting hysterics that I’m arming an ex-obscurus who ripped up several city blocks and a few no-maj landmarks last week.”

Credence looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, sir, I did try to stop my Angry one.”

“I know you did, my boy, it’s not your fault. If anything, I blame that bitch of a woman who adopted you.” The mention of Credence’s family reminded him of his family and a likely solution to his problem. Graves summoned an owl and wrote a short note to the President and charmed it so that even the most powerful Argus spell wouldn’t be able to decipher its contents.

“I’m going to my family’s house upstate for a little while, Credence. There are schoolbooks there I think you would find useful that I’ll bring back to you. I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so.”

Credence nodded. “Is it okay if I pick out some books to read from your library?”

“Go ahead, anything but the locked cases at the far end.”

Credence watched as the older man grabbed handful of floo power from the dish on the mantle, stepped up to the fireplace, said "Graveshold" and with a poof, disappeared into the flames.

Cautiously Credence got up from the couch and backed away from the fireplace. He didn’t want to get sucked in if he stood close.

He started his browsing at a bookshelf near a window seat which had some writers he’d heard of like Shakespeare and Dickens. He pulled out some poetry by Walt Whitman and a newer novel, _The Great Gatsby_ , by an author he was unfamiliar with. “I wonder if he owns _Twice Told Tales by Tituba_?” he wondered aloud. Three bays over a book wriggled and extracted itself from a bottom shelf and floated over, landing on the cushioned window seat.

“Thank you!” Credence called out, in case something was listening, and picked up the book.

It was an older edition than the one the Goldstein sisters owned, but he easily found the story he’d gotten partway through before he had fallen asleep this morning. He curled up in the window seat, pulling his knees to his chest to prop the book up. He was absorbed enough that he didn’t notice the lights come up as daylight fled by 4:30.

Much later than he had planned, a slightly dusty smelling auror stepped out of the flue and looked about for Credence, smiling when he caught sight of the dark head bent over a book.

“Hi, Credence!”

Reflexively, the young man flinched and hid the book behind his back and a throw pillow. Graves pretended he hadn’t noticed the hardwired fearful response and motioned him over to the sofa where they’d eaten their snacks.

“I found what I was looking for, it just took a while. My old school books and notes and, ta-da, a chest of old Graves family wands which were old enough that they predate the wand permits requirement law of 1899.”

He took the matchbox sized container, put it in the middle of the floor and with a few wand passes and “Engorgio” a larger, hope chest sized container full of wands wrapped in silk and other cloth coverings of all shapes and sizes revealed itself. Each wand was tagged with a stiff paper label. Graves pulled out the top tray holding the first collection. Under the yellow chamois cloth were small wands six or seven inches long, clearly intended for a young child’s hand.

“Can I…” asked Credence, stretching out one long finger toward one labelled "Azalea, Monarch butterfly scale core" with a faded pink ribbon flower at its base. Graves nodded, admiring Credence's hands as he carefully turned the wand, examining its carvings and pink quartz finial.

“She must have been so happy to get something this pretty as a fourth birthday present, Arabella Melusine Graves. Did they get bigger ones when they grew up?” the younger man asked hopefully.

Graves shook his head and said gruffly, “these wands’ owners didn’t live long enough for that—it’s only the last forty years or so that we know how to prevent dragon pox and other childhood diseases that used to be fatal. It is one reason why old wizard families have lots of branches- have a lot of kids to make sure at least two or three made it to adulthood, so there would be someone left to inherit.”

“Oh. I’m glad their parents loved them enough to give them wands,” said Credence quietly, and somberly passed the wand back to Graves who gently re-rolled the baby wands in their protective cloth and set them aside.

“It’s a tedious process, but if you could just hold wands with different woods, we might be able to narrow which are most compatible with your magic without pawing through three hundred years of Graves family wands.”

“Your family was here during the first Salem witch hunts?” asked Credence, impressed.

“Actually, the first Graves came here a few years after Jamestown in Virginia was established. He was definitely a risk taker and gambler, so he wouldn’t have been too happy living in Puritan New England. He married a witch from the native Powhatan tribe and their children ended up heading north. William or Wilhelm Graves wed a Dutch born immigrant witch Helena van Wyck in New Amsterdam, which is how the family settled in New York State. A few generations later we acquired Graveshold from a loyalist witching clan who needed money to return to England when the American Revolution broke out.”

“It must be amazing to know so much about your people and where you came from, where you belong,” said Credence regretfully.

A thought occurred to Graves. “Would you like me to try and discreetly track down your original family? You might have some cousins alive or something.”

Credence debated with himself. “I—I think so, but what if they’re horrible people or didn’t want to adopt me after Mama died because there was something wrong with me?”

“First I’d have to see if I could track down anyone. And I think your memory isn’t as good as you claim it is…” said Graves, teasing him.

Credence shot him a questioning look.

“I said it before, and I’ll tell you again, there is nothing wrong with you, Credence Barebone,” asserted the older man and shifted a further two trays of wands onto the table with a grunt of effort.

“We have to thank great-great-aunt Katrina for taking on the job of organizing the Graves wand collection. She even did an index to list wandmaker, wood, core, date created, when it was in active use, owner or owners and significant spells its owner performed with it. She sorted the wands out by woods into groups. I think holding the wand will narrow your choices, since I haven’t taught you any spells yet. If it feels positive, put it over here, if it feels dead or negative, let’s put those into the center of the table. Ready?”

Credence nodded and blew out a nervous breath.

“Acacia.” Credence barely held it before he dropped it onto the table, clattering. “It pricked me like a thorn bush!”

“Okay, not that wood.”

“Alder.”

“That feels… warm. Let’s put that in the positive pile.”

They worked their way through more woods, apple, ash—“My father thought that might suit me at one time,” said Graves.

Blackthorn was a possible choice for Credence as were fir and pine.

Peach made him giggle and sassafras made him feel dizzy. English and Red Oak felt too heavy.

Curious about his response, Graves passed Credence a varnished cedar wand without telling him the type of wood.

“It feels…your wand is made of this, yeah? It’s not for me, but it feels like your magic, protecting me,” said Credence, and handed it right back to him.

Graves’ estimation of his protégé’s potential went up a few more notches. “Mine is indeed cedar, with wampus hair core, this one here has a Sasquatch hair core.”

Credence thought a moment, nodding. “Hosea 14:6, And his beauty will be like the olive tree, and his fragrance like the cedars of Lebanon.”

Graves cleared his throat, uncertain if he was being complimented or not. Credence seemed to have a biblical quote for almost anything.

“I wonder what wand wood Modesty would pick, given she's both sweet and prickly,” said Credence, as Graves sorted back the rejected wands and left out the groups of blackthorn, alder, fir and pine wands.

“Some wand makers say the wand picks the wizard, I think maybe it’s a bit of a mutual attraction,” offered the older man.

“All right, next step. I’d like you to take my wand for this, just to practice.”

He carefully presented it to Credence,silver banded hilt fist, nodding, pleased as Credence gingerly held it, gently but firmly, awaiting instructions.

“Are you right handed or left handed? Our President Picquery is left handed.”

“I started out writing with my left hand, but they smacked me with a ruler at school so I would use my right. Mary Lou told me that the word sinister meant left in Latin and that witches were left handed, so I used my right hand around her. I do most things like opening doors that are easier right handed and other things where it doesn’t seem to matter, I might use either hand.”

Graves winced a bit at the harsh world of no-majs hitting children for such a small deviation as left handedness. “There’s also wandless magic which doesn’t even require hand gestures, you can learn that later. Wands tend to help people focus when they’re learning the basics.”

“I should add that there is also a lot of etiquette and many superstitions tied to wands. The basics are that you don’t give your wand to just anyone. Close friends or lovers or family might be allowed to touch it or borrow it in an emergency, but generally one doesn’t touch another person's wand, it’s disrespectful, to say nothing of potentially dangerous if there is not some bond between the two magic users."

Credence looked unnerved, until Graves reassured him. “It’s fine, Credence, I’d like to think we can become good friends and by extending my hospitality to you, we have established a relationship of host and guest, one that also has various traditions tied to it. Isn’t there a no-maj tradition that if you break bread with someone you’re not supposed to fight with them under that roof?”

“Yes, though some people seem to fight over anything. You know, you were in the war.”

Graves nodded, thinking about brawls he’d witnessed over women or card games, or for no reason at all save there was too much tension in the trenches and it needed somewhere to go.

“If you teach me, is that another connection with rules?” asked Credence.

“It could be, but I think we’ll be doing more informal learning together—you’ll be learning magic and I’ll be learning how to teach you magic, more like two people figuring out things together, than a traditional teacher and pupil connection with formal exams and quizzes. I think you've had enough orders to last you for a very long time.”

“Now, Lumos and Nox. Light and Night or Dark. You can pick a hand and see what feels best for you.”

He placed his right hand over Credence’s after he picked his left hand after a brief hesitation.

“Nox is the invocation—one holds the wand steady for a second, then bring it up with a flicking movement… nox!” The light they pointed at to the left of the fireplace went out instantly, faster than a snuffed candle. Credence jumped a little. "I think I felt your magic go through my hand."

“Now to reverse it, lumos—hold the wand steady in a point for a beat, then bring it down with a sudden movement, like so.. Lumos!”

“Like striking a match?” said Credence, tilting his head to the side, thinking of a simile.

“Okay, now, you try the movements and the commands and think of light going out and then flaring like a match, but a consistent light, do the sconce to the right of the mantle,” Graves instructed, removing his hand.

Credence tried out both spells and was a bit disappointed when the lights flickered or flared, but didn’t definitely go out or come on.

“That’s a good first try with a wand not attuned to you,” said Graves encouragingly, taking back his wand. “Let’s try the four kinds of wands that you responded to and see what responds to you best. There are three blackthorn ones here, with different cores.”

The results were lackluster, although the moose horn core seemed a little better than the wolf hair or alligator tooth ones. The three alder and four fir ones yielded modest results though mermaid hair core in fir caused the light to spark and sizzle like a small firecracker.

Credence looked at the tags tied to the three pine wands lying on the table. “Jersey devil horn core, Arctic wolf, Nantucket wraith hair?" he asked, looking to Graves for directions or guidance.

“All top predators in their natural environments,” offered Graves neutrally, then realized that might not be seen as a recommendation by Credence.

“All right,” said Credence with a sigh and closing his eyes, reached out his left hand, and passed his hand above them. One quivered and leapt into his grasp. He went through the motions for Lux and Nox and the lights responded perfectly.

“Try something else,” suggested Graves, smiling. “Just visualize what you want the result to be and I’ll teach you an invocation later. Don’t worry, I can fix anything you break.”

Credence held himself still, spine straight, shoulders back and closed his eyes to concentrate. He held his wand out towards the northeast in his left hand, made a motioning, calling gesture with his right hand and a salt breeze swirled around them for a few moments and a length of rope with a glass ball netted within it appeared on the table. Graves smiled to himself, he couldn't wait to see more magic from Credence if this was his first time effort.

Credence’s eyes bugged out. “What’s that?”

“Let me see your wand’s label." Wordlessly, Credence surrendered the wand and label to the commanding man’s hand. Graves read out: “Pine, 12 inches, Nantucket wraith hair core, held by HateEvil Nutter 1620-1691; Elspeth Coffin 1758-1819, Phoebe Coleman Graves, 1830-1886. Used for abating Great Floode from Ye Wrathful Storm of 1635, growing food during the Year without a Summer, 1816 and containing damage from Quake of 1884 in New York City. Well, that explains the witch ball.”

“Witch ball?” Credence asked weakly, imagining a coven dancing around a blazing bonfire.

Graves gestured at the sphere with strands of strands of glass within it. “Traditionally used as fishing floats. Nantucket’s an island, so lots of fishing there before whaling and whale oil became a big industry for no-maj lighting in the 1800s before petroleum was discovered.” He removed the label handily, put it in his pocket, and passed Credence back his new wand. Credence carefully stowed it in his left front pants pocket.

“Nice manifestation, by the way. What were you aiming for?”

“Something from where the core was found or harvested.”

“I think your wand has a bit of a sense of humor. At least we didn’t get a lap of North Atlantic cod flopping around on the table,” he said, looking approvingly at the witch ball which lay motionless in its nest of hempen rope. "Would you like me to send it to your room?" Credence nodded and his teacher disappeared the globe and rope to upstairs.

Credence shot him a glance. “Well,” he said slyly, “Some fresh fish wouldn’t have been bad. I could cook them for supper, at least feed the two of us. Even with bread I probably wouldn’t been able to feed five thousand, though.”

A snort of laughter forced its way out of Graves' usually serious mouth at the somewhat blasphemous joke. To fight witch-haters effectively, you needed familiarity with their bible and their beliefs, the same as with any other hate group.

“C’mon Credence--it’s getting late—let’s get you some of Queenie’s supper, magic making gives you an appetite. I’m sure her supper has turned up in my kitchen by now.”

“I could eat something,” Credence allowed.

“Which in plain English means you’re hungry, right?” Graves asked, washing his hands and then passing the towel for hand-drying to Credence.

“Maybe. I don’t want or mean to be a bother, sir,” he reminded his host, but he didn't protest further when a casserole with roast chicken and vegetables, bread and an Indian pudding for dessert revealed themselves on the table, still steaming under expert keep-warm charms and smelling almost as good as they would taste.

Graves had noted that Credence didn’t hunch much when he was working magic, even though his stooped posture had returned during supper. With a philosophical shrug, Graves reminded himself that even Wizards took more than a day to build Camelot and Credence had only been here part of the day, after all. He got himself a glass of wine from a bottle from a Wizarding vineyard in the Finger Lakes and floated a glass of water and a small bit of the wine in a goblet over to Credence to sample.

Credence’s table manners were ragged around the edges. He ate neatly enough with utensils, but inhaled the food quickly, as though afraid he didn’t know when to expect his next meal. After his plate was cleared in five minutes, Credence snuck a glance at Mr. Graves who was thoughtfully chewing his meat and taking a leisurely sip of wine, his meal half-consumed. He raised an eyebrow at Credence’s clean dish and said, “Would you like seconds, then, Mr. Barebone?”

Credence flushed, ducked his head and then, remembering where he was, raised it again. “Yes, please, Mr. Graves,” he said, his voice wavering only a little bit at his boldness.

“Sure thing,” said Graves, and floated the casserole dish from the stove to a spot in front of Credence. “Help yourself, Queenie made us plenty. If you like, try some wine, it goes nicely with the meal.”

Credence tried a sip and made a face. “It’s… okay,” he said, making an effort to sound polite.

Graves chuckled. “You don’t have to like it, some things are acquired tastes. Try something and if you don’t like it, you can either try it again later or move on to something else.” Credence nodded, concentrating on the advice and took a large drink of water to rinse out the sour grapey taste in his mouth before he turned questioning eyes to his companion.

“Do all witches and wizards drink?”

“Some do, some don’t, it’s not illegal like it is in no-maj America.”

“Oh. So what do you like to drink besides that?” he asked, gesturing with his fork before digging into his second portion.

“Mm, whiskey, sometimes martinis when I’m out in speakeasies. Tina’s fond of a cocktail called a Fallen Angel. It’s Creme de menthe with gin and lime.”

“I guess an angel in good standing wouldn’t drink, except maybe communion wine,” Credence thoughtfully. Engaging Credence in light conversation had the added benefit of slowing down his food intake so he wasn’t in imminent danger of choking, decided Graves.

“Fancy a nice roast Lamb of God?” suggested Graves, thinking perhaps his tongue was getting a little loosened by the wine.

“Mmm, and young green peas that passeth human understanding,” rejoined Credence, a wicked glint in his eye.

Graves raised his wine glass in acknowledgement at the pun. Credence suddenly yawned, his hand flying up to cover his mouth. “Sorry,” he said and turned a little pink.

“It’s been a long day for both of us. When do you usually wake up?”

"Five in the summer, six in the winter.”

“Ah. Well, sleep in tomorrow. We’ll do breakfast at eight or so and then start shopping, okay?”

“Yes, Mr. Graves,” agreed Credence automatically.

“I’m sorry, I’ve been a boss too long-- let me rephrase that. When would you like to get started, Credence?”

“Whenever works best for you, Director Graves,” Credence said solemnly, then ruined the effect by quirking a corner of his lovely mouth in a smirk.

“I’ll see you sometime between six thirty and eight thirty unless you sleep in later, how’s that for flexibility, eh?” said Graves, floating his and Credence’s empty plates to the kitchen sink before Credence could offer to clean up.

“Yes, sir,” said Credence on another yawn, picking up his wand from the table. “Sleep well.” He made his way upstairs to unpack his small suitcase and put on the warm flannel pajamas that were a new addition to his night time ritual of tooth brushing and face washing. They were far warmer than the threadbare nightshirt he’d had at Mary Lou’s. He placed his wand under his pillow and seven breaths later was nearly asleep.


	14. Someone to Watch over Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post traumatic stress rears its head and Credence gets a lesson in wizarding etiquette.

**December 14, 1926 9:15 a.m.**

“Someone to Watch over me”-George and Ira Gershwin, 1926  
There's a somebody I'm longin' to see/ I hope that he turns out to be/ Someone who'll watch over me./ I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood/I know I could, always be good/To one who'll watch over me./ Although he may not be the man/Some girls think of as handsome/To my heart he carries the key.

Bright light roused Credence and he knew something was different even before he opened his eyes. Oh, he knew where he was-- in Mr. Graves’ townhouse in the third best guestroom. Yesterday morning he’d been in Miss Tina’s and Queenie's apartment and before that he’d been a chaos of mist and anger floating around the city, a miasma wanting revenge. Life could certainly turn on a dime.

He pulled his hand out from under his pillow where he’d been holding his new wand in his sleep and examined it more closely in the daylight. Under the light grain of the pine were spots of green and blue metallic patches that shifted as he turned the wand, iridescent, like gasoline in puddles after a rainstorm. At the base of the wand was a yellowish white decorative cap, maybe ivory? with a greyish irregular freshwater pearl at the tip and inlaid buttons of silvery wood. He’d have to ask Mr. Graves what they were. He stuck it in his pajama top's arm and ventured out from between the warm blankets.

He looked over at the clock and blinked, it was nine-fifteen. He was late, Mr. Graves had said they would eat at 8:30, if he slept in late. Credence stuck his head out the door of his room and listened. The house was quiet, there was no clattering like someone eating breakfast, no smell of coffee wafting up the stairs. Maybe his host had slept in as well?

Sticking his feet into plush moccasin style slippers that fit perfectly, he silently walked down the hall to Mr. Graves’ room and leaned in to listen, heard faint snoring. He tapped lightly on the door and it silently swung open. He stepped a few steps into the room, wanting to see what his Protector looked like asleep.

The snoring stopped abruptly and Graves sat up, yelling “Protego!” his wand in his hand in a defensive posture as he blinked sleep out of his eyes. A wall of light shimmered between them. Credence jumped back into the hallway from the threshold, his heart pounding and fled back to the shelter of his room, slammed the door closed and dove under the bed. He scrunched himself into the darkest corner in the back and closed his eyes so they wouldn’t shine in the dimness and waited.

“Corwin’s crap, Credence—hang on, you startled me, that’s all,” yelled Graves. Credence heard him muttering about fucking Grindelwald and a few choice insults at MACUSA and the President. He wondered if those sexual positions were possible, even with magic.

Graves slowly opened Credence’s door and said, “Credence? Is it okay if I come in? You tell me if it’s alright or I’ll just stay out here in the hall until it is fine… it’s your choice, got it?”

Credence sniffed, his nose was running. When had he started crying? “Can you come in?” he asked, brokenly.

“Where—oh.” Graves knelt down beside the bed and rolled his wand toward the back, dim corner under the bed. “Here, see, I’m not going to hex you.”

He lay down on his stomach and rested his head on folded arms, looking in Credence’s direction. All the auror could see was a curled hump in a back corner, panting and shivering. At least magic kept the worst of the dust bunnies and doxies at bay.

“You’ve got my wand if you want to pick it up, if that makes you feel safer. I would never deliberately hurt you, I promise you-- just, well, if I get woken up suddenly, I come up fighting-- it’s my first response, it was drilled into me more than twenty years ago-- it’s not me trying to hurt you in particular.”

There was a long silence. “I know,” said Credence, exhausted from his sudden fear. “I’m just so tired of being hurt and scared.” He looked at Graves, who lay calmly on the bedside rug, his eyes now closed, his weapon out of reach, resting against Credence’s foot. Just a normal way to start your holiday with an unplanned houseguest.

“You and me both, you and me both,” said Graves, patiently. "Maybe we can help each other with that, eh? So I don't automatically start to fight and you don't flee or freeze." They lay silent for several minutes until Credence decided it was foolish to keep hiding under the bed when he had been found. He needed to blow his nose, he was sure there was snot and tears all over his face. He took his wand and Graves’ cedar one in his left hand and squirmed out from under the bed, coming nose to nose with Graves, who lay, relaxed on the floor, watching his progress with keen dark eyes.

“Okay if I get up?” he asked, “or should both we lie here a while and get our breaths back?” He somehow managed to convey poise despite his unusual position flat on the floor.

“I don’t wanna move yet,” said Credence, looking his fill of the straight eyebrows, the stubble on the other man’s cleft chin. Their positions reminded him of sharing confidences with Modesty, their faces close together, and that felt safe and familiar. He felt a bit embarrassed by his tears, but there was no look of pity or condemnation on Graves' face.

“How ‘bout a handkerchief?” asked the older man after a minute or two of them just breathing in unison and calming down.

Sheepishly, Credence nodded. Graves, murmured “Accio handkerchief,” and a snowy white cotton square floated down between them.

Credence blew his nose and scrubbed his eyes. He hated to cry, Mary Lou said it was a sign of weakness. At that, he teared up again, he was a murderer…

Slowly, telegraphing his intention, Graves reached over and thumbed away the tear making its way over Credence’s cheek.

“You’re fine, Credence. You can decide to cry or not, it’s all okay. We can talk about things or not talk about them. Do you still want to go out shopping today or stay indoors?”

Credence gulped and looked at Graves. He didn't feel like he could decide anything right now. He reached into his memory for the familiarity of an apt quote. “Revelation 21:4, he will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”

“Yes to all of that, though even wizards can’t avoid death,” said Graves. “You deserve all sorts of good things the rest of your days.” He said it solemnly, as though he were making a vow.

Credence wasn’t sure about that, but he’d take the other man’s word for now. “Here,” he said, passing Graves his cedar wand. “You don’t need to surrender your wand for me to trust you, I know I’m safe with you.”

“Good. We both need time to get over what that bastard did to us. It has made me feel like I’m back in 1919 dealing with shell-shock from the war again, right back where I started,” the auror confessed, taking his wand and seeing the empathy in the young man’s eyes. He rolled away and sat up and stood, offering his hand to Credence to haul him upright.

“Showers then breakfast sound alright? You can go first, then we can figure out what, if anything we want to do with today.”

“Yes, sir,” said Credence fingering his wand, which reminded him he wanted to ask Mr. Graves about the decorations on it. “Can you tell me what that is at the end? Is it bone or ivory?” He pushed it into the other man’s empty hand and was astounded at the expression on his face.

“You _do_ trust me, you’re not just saying that to be polite,” Graves murmured. "You wouldn't have been able to pry my new wand from my fingers for about a week after I got it at twelve. I wouldn't even let my own mother touch it."

“I wouldn’t lie to you, sir. And what are those grey bits of wood?”

“Mm,” said Graves and turned his attention to Credence’s wand. “Given its origins, I’d say probably narwhal ivory from a leviathan’s front tooth. Those grey wood inserts…” he sniffed at the wand, to Credence’s surprise and amusement.

“There’s a faint salt smell to them. Driftwood, though I’ve no idea what kind of wood originally,” he added, then said formally, with a small bow, “I thank you for the honor and trust shown to me,” as he handed back his wand to Credence. “American Wizarding etiquette, I might as well add that to the list of topics we cover in our studies together.”

“And what should I have said when I gave you my wand instead of just casually handing it over?” asked Credence shrewdly. “And when you returned it to me unharmed?”

“Here, we’ll walk through the formal responses. The giver says, “I extend my wand and entrust my life to your safekeeping, wizard to wizard (or witch), so mote it be,” said Graves, passing his cedar wand hilt first to Credence.

Credence concentrated, placing the line in his memory, repeated it, took the offered wand and nodded. “Got it. Then I say?”

“I hold your wand, life and magic as close and safe as mine own for thee,” and you give a little bow if the occasion demands or you hold the giver in high esteem,” said Graves.

“I hold your wand, life and magic as close and safe as mine own for thee,” repeated Credence, bowing deeply, feeling a warm glow from the cedar wood in his hand. He basked in it a few moments before returning Graves’ wand to him, hilt first.

“I thank you for the honor and trust shown to me,” said Credence, saying the next line.

“Let honor and trust be ever between us, so mote it be,” replied Graves solemnly.

“Is the mote it be part like a witches’ Amen?” asked Credence, trying to fit the ritual into the religious rites he had seen in his life as he slipped his wand in his left front pajama pocket.

“It’s older language for so may it be, or as the Powers that Be decide or as Magic, wills it to be so… so yes, I guess you could say it’s like an Amen. Of course, in an emergency, such rituals aren’t so elaborate. The whole exchange may be shortened to the two people saying in unison, “perfect trust and amity” or nothing at all if they are family or partners or married. Sometimes in battle all you can do is throw the wand or catch it and run like hell.”

Credence nodded, filing away the information. “Anything odd I should know about magical bathrooms? And how cold is it outside?” He didn’t want to run shrieking every time something unexpected startled him and he didn’t want to shiver from the cold as he walked alongside the well-dressed man and shame Mr. Graves with his company.

“Dress warmly, they’re saying some snow tonight, I need to show you warming charms too.”  He thought a little bit. “As for the bathroom, it’s pretty much the same as a no-maj one. You probably shouldn’t get your wand wet,” said Graves solemnly, and Credence nodded, obedient to his directions.

“Although… given your wand’s components you might want to roll it in some sand or sprinkle some salt water on it from time to time,” Graves added, “after all, you wouldn’t want it to get homesick and float itself back to Nantucket.”

Credence eyes widened as he stared at the wand in his hand as though it had suddenly turned into a jellyfish and then, eyes narrowed, looked back at Graves, who was smirking at him, waiting for his response.

He was delighted by the sudden joyous laugh that escaped from Credence before he slapped a hand over his mouth, trying to hide his amusement.

“You have a lovely laugh,” he breathed, and ruffled Credence’s hair. “Now go get yourself clean and dressed and let me show you some of Magical New York.”


	15. For our wants to be supplied

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence makes breakfast and Graves makes a mistake and forgets something he needs to tell Credence...

Never having taken a shower before and embarrassed to ask Mr. Graves for yet more directions, Credence instead drew himself a bath—how lovely to have hot water to reach as high as one’s waist when seated, rather than a tepid sponge bath! A row of stoppered bottles tempted him to investigate their contents. He selected the one that was nearly full and uncorked the bottle and sniffed. He recognized rosemary and maybe a sharp citrusy tang like orange. The next bottle contained what he sought—the sandalwood and pine scent that Mr. Graves’ clothes carried.

Credence dropped a capful in the water and watched with faint concern as the bubbles rapidly multiplied into a froth covering the bath’s surface. He took up a washcloth and thoroughly scrubbed himself all over. He paid special attention to his neck, hair and behind his ears, in case Mr. Graves decided to pat his head or clasp his shoulder again. He drained and rinsed the tub clean and draped in an enormous fluffy bathrobe and towel, he stepped back into the guestroom next door to dress.

More choices confronted him. His new black suit, undoubtedly was part of his outfit today, but Queenie had included two pairs of suspenders, three ties in black, blue and a golden one like a lion’s pelt and socks with red clocks, small blue check patterns and solid black. He took his time deciding, knowing he’d never look as pulled together as Percival Graves, the Director.

His hair in particular looked wrong—he curled his lip at his reflection in the mirror. Maybe there was a spell that could do something with it? Well, as Mary Lou had said, no point trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. He was clean and looked tidy in his new clothes, that was all someone like himself could hope to achieve. His new brogues were warm and fit well—no lining of newspapers would be needed for his feet to stay warm today.

He went downstairs to discover freshly brewing coffee, but no breakfast. Credence carefully removed his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves and found an apron that covered most of his shirt. A quick check in the ice box gave him what he needed—eggs, butter, milk, sliced ham. There was a loaf of bread in the breadbox and a sugar bowl on the counter.

Among the dizzying array of spices he’d only read about, he found cinnamon. He set the ham to cook in a frying pan and began making French Toast—it didn’t take too many matches to get the stove lit, so soon Credence was busily flipping the egg dunked slices before they went from pleasantly browned to blackening char. He had timed it just right- the ham was done, the French toast piping hot and the coffee percolator had stopped burbling as Mr. Graves appeared in the kitchen.

“What’s all this?” he said, sounding pleased and surprised by the spread on his table. Many mornings his hurried breakfast was just black coffee and a piece or two of buttered toast.

His hair was perfectly dry, noted Credence. He wanted to learn that spell too, he thought, adding it to his mental list of Wizard Things to Ask Mr. Graves.

“It’s my thank you to you for all you’ve done for me, sir. Would you like more butter on the French toast? I’ve heard maple syrup is very tasty with pancakes, if you have any.”

“Well, thank you, it looks wonderful.” Graves snapped his fingers and spread them in a shape like a five lobed maple leaf and the pantry door swung open and the jug of syrup came winging over, settling placidly by the plate with the pile of French toast.

“Oh and orange juice, you should have some of that too,” said Graves, “it’s good for your health,” as he opened the ice box and grabbed a bottle from it and pour Credence a glassful. He seated himself and took a sip of coffee from his cup and breathed a sigh of pleasure. He wrapped his hands around it and looked over at Credence, who had bowed his head, waiting.

“If you want to pray, I can respect your traditions, as you are having to learn mine,” offered Graves, taking another swallow before he put his cup back down and folded his hands. Credence looked up and then nodded, closing his eyes.

“Bless, O Lord, this food to our use, our hands to your ways, magical and no-maj, and make me ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.”

“So mote it be,” said Graves and cleared his throat, picking up his silverware. “Well? Shall we?”

Credence smiled and dove into his first bites, before remembering last night’s supper. He tried to pace himself, but the maple syrup was wonderful, he hadn’t tasted it before. Orange juice was another luxury he'd never tried either, and if Mr. Graves said it was healthy, he'd better finish it so he'd been strong enough to learn more magic today.

Graves immersed himself in his first, then second cup of coffee. He was not a morning person, like Modesty who was surly until nine a.m., deduced Credence as he watched Mr. Graves scan the headlines of the Ghost and skim the political and crime news in the New York Times before setting them aside and trying to play the gracious host. He finally roused his brain enough for small talk.

“Where did you learn to cook? I can’t see Mary Lou having you flipping flapjacks for dozens of street urchins.”

“She liked a hearty breakfast for herself. We kids usually got oatmeal, but I learned how to cook from Mary Lou so she could sleep in another hour and sometimes I could sneak us a bit of bacon, or there might be some leftover toast we could share. If I made too much, Mary Lou would start lecturing about waste not, want not, but Chastity could usually distract her with a question about witches or the Bible while Modesty and I ate the extras and put some for Chas in a cloth among the dirty dishes, since that was her chore. Did you know that libraries have recipe books and cookbooks? Mrs. Beeton’s book is good, she explains things for a beginner.”

“I can’t say I’ve spent any time in no-maj libraries, Credence. There are laws to keep magic and no-maj people from intermingling, so most of us keep to our own gathering places. As an auror, I have some latitude when investigating on behalf of Magical Security, but it’s one of our abiding principles that we need to keep ourselves a secret to stay safe. I can't stress how important that is,” he added, with raised eyebrows to make his point.

Credence nodded. He understood secrets were important. He knew the story of Moses in the bible, hidden by his mother and sister to keep him from being killed. “Libraries make me feel safe, they have all this information just waiting to be learned. They’re quiet and people don’t fight in them or they get thrown out. People ignore you mostly in libraries. It’s safe to blend into the woodwork. I think the more I know, the more I can try to avoid dangerous things or learn how to escape them or negotiate.”

“With magic, you can learn all sorts of ways to fight for yourself and for others,” said Graves, offering another viewpoint.  He preferred a clean duel over endless protocol and diplomacy, but he had a friendship of sorts, alliance and mutual political backscratching arrangement with the silver-tongued Seraphina since they were teenagers, and had learned a thing or two about the value of silence and words.

He could see the value of well-placed words when she stifled the hot headed progressives and fire breathing traditionalists who were about to draw wands on each other in MACUSA’s chambers. It kept him from having to wade into the fray, which he appreciated. His aurors had more important things to do than break up posturing and fisticuffs by politicians when ambitious Dark Lords such as Grindelwald roamed free.

“I want to be strong, Mr. Graves, but I don’t think I’ll be willing to fight like you do—for everyone. I could be strong for people I love and fight to protect them. People I’ve never met? It seems too distant to be real to me.”

“I’ll give you options and when you’re trained then you can decide how you use your knowledge, does that make sense to you? You’re not a naïve twelve year old, so I can’t tell you to just take this or that on faith, unquestioningly so that you’ll devote yourself to learning it. You need to learn to question as well as make decisions, Credence, there’s been far too much unquestioning obedience forced on you through punishment.”

Credence sighed deeply and looked over at him. He didn't want to disappoint his Protector, but he thought wars didn't solve much. He hoped the League of Nations would manage to sort out postwar Europe, there were a lot of poor people everywhere.  “I’ll need time to think about what you’ve said, Mr. Graves. I know I have to change my reactions and it will take time to do that too. And whenever you learn or experience something important, like magic, that’s gotta change a person too, I bet.”

“I’m never going to take having clean water available to drink for granted again in my life after being imprisoned by Grindelwald,” agreed the auror, “so yes, I take your point. Mercy Lewis, how do we get into these serious discussions when I'm half awake? What name do you want to go by today? I’m not going to go around introducing you as we shop, but people may ask me your name.”

“Ezra Coffin?” asked Credence, remembering the surname of one of his wand’s former owners.

“Sure, you can be a fifth cousin or some such of mine, down to see the big city,” agreed Graves affably. He looked at Credence, assessing. “Certainly your dark eyes and hair make you look like one of my mother’s family. Would you let me change your hair so it isn’t quite so short?”

Credence nodded, eagerly, holding still as Graves murmured, “Iam crine” and made a downward stroking motion with his wand. His bangs and shaved sideburns were grown out, his hair parted on the side by a floating comb and flattened with Brilliantine. Mr. Graves gestured to a mirror in the next room and Credence walked over, murmuring half to himself, “Ecclesiastes 1:2, Vanity of vanities! All is vanity.”

Despite his self-admonishment, Credence liked what he saw. His haircut looked more like that of other men he saw on the streets of Manhattan and less like a medieval penitent about to crawl to Jerusalem on a pilgrimage. He mouthed the words “iam crine” to his reflection and saw his sideburns lengthen just a fraction.

“It’s not vanity, it’s called camouflage,” retorted Graves, coming up behind him and putting his hands on Credence’s shoulders reassuringly. “That was both an unflattering and memorable haircut, and if we run into one of my coworkers, I’d rather they not identify you as the Obscurial that Lived.”

“Ex-host to an Obscurus, thanks to the witch's version of exorcism,” corrected Credence, smiling at the reflection of Mr. Graves. He was surprised to note that when he stood without slouching he was about an inch taller than Graves. He felt so slight when he contrasted himself to the older man. Graves’ air of authority alone made him seem six feet tall.

“Only one man who can vouch for that, and Newton Scamander is half-way to England by now.”

"His creatures sound amazing, I only met one of them, a green little Bowtruckle, as he was leaving.”

“Yeah, I heard about those amazing beasts when I got sprung from my prison. Amazing pains in Picquery’s and my aurors’ collective asses, you mean,” said Graves grumpily, heading for a wardrobe that held their coats and hats. He helped Credence on with his coat and looped a grey cashmere scarf around his neck. Credence couldn’t decide whether he should object to being treated like a three year old who couldn’t dress himself, or thank him for the caring attention. He settled for an accepting silence as his default.

“Gloves,” the man directed, passing Credence a pair of soft leather ones lined with sheepskin and his homburg hat, and putting on his own coat and scarf. “You have your wand with you? We gotta get you a holster for that.”

Credence nodded, patting his left coat pocket, where he’d transferred the precious object that was all his, and seemed to like and respond to him.

Graves showed him the opening spell, Alohomora, that worked for doors, and told him if they got separated to come back to the town house or wait for Queenie outside the Woolworth building while thinking hard about her when she got off work at 5 pm and she would sort him out. They came down the sandstone steps and Credence felt something change in the air behind him and whirled around.

“Just a good solid disillusion and notice-me-not spell. Every no-maj going by just thinks it’s a rundown store selling something they’d never be interested in buying, so they walk on,” said Graves, in a low tone, and led him to an alley near where West Fourth Street crossed West Tenth.

“Hold my arm, Credence,” he ordered and Credence, suspecting he should hold tight, grabbed on with both hands.

He surfaced with Graves across town, not far from Union Square and was promptly violently nauseated, retching in the gutter. He felt like he’d left his stomach in the West Village and his throat somewhere around NYU.

“Damn, I’m sorry, Credence, I forgot-- should have warned you side-along apparition can have that effect the first few times. I’ve been doing side-alongs since I was a toddler with my parents.

Credence looked up from where he was crouched, breathing hard, and dared to glower. “Yes, you should have told me, not that it would have necessarily helped. It’s nice to get a warning before my stomach catapults in my body. Is there a clean up spell you can do for vomit on shoe leather or the taste of stomach acid on my teeth?”

Graves flushed at the reproach and promptly muttered “Calceamenta mundi,” making Credence’s new shoes shine again and “Cum metha spicata mundare dentium.” He offered Credence a hand and hauled him, shakily, to his feet.

“Don’t worry,” he said, administering a counter charm to the jelly-legs jinx which was helpful in this situation, “people will just think you’re getting heavily into an illegal Christmas spirit a week or so early.” Credence resolutely refused to be amused by the almost pun.

“I’m sure there must be a hangover cure our sort of people have, right?”

“Several. One from ancient Rome for red wine is still used to this day,” Graves assured him, still looking sheepish at his oversight.

“Good,” said Credence, “I’ll add it to my list of useful spells to master, if I decide to become an alcoholic. "Wine is a mocker, strong drink is raging: and whosoever is deceived thereby is not wise, as it says in Proverbs 31.”

“It takes the edge off of awful memories and nightmares for me,” offered Graves, “but you don’t have to follow my bibulous example. One guy I knew took up carving and creating ships in bottles without magic to deal with his shell-shock the nights he couldn’t sleep.”

Credence shook his head at what other people chose to do with their spare time. He’d rather be reading and learning spells or talking with Mr. Graves as a distraction.


	16. When I have money, I buy books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clothing, books and food-- well, candy, are bought by Credence and Graves before they salvage things from Credence's past...

“When I have a little money, I buy books, and if any is left, I buy food and clothes.” Desiderus Erasmus

 

They wouldn’t have been able to carry everything they bought, had it not been for shrinking charms, and even then, Graves opted to have the supplementary books for Ilvermorny students from no-maj families delivered to his apartment.

Then Graves took Credence to his tailor, known as the Chic Gentleman's Sheik, to get some much needed additions to his wardrobe.

Averil Needleham eyed Credence’s too-thin form when Graves ushered him into the luxurious store. He welcomed Graves, inquired after his health and was quickly diverted from his polite busybody questions by the Director introducing his companion. “My fourth cousin, Ezra Coffin, visiting me from Druid College, in Madison, New Jersey.”

Needlesham chuckled. “Well he’s certainly wearing enough black already. The two of you sound like a pair of no-maj undertakers, Coffin and Graves.”

Credence smirked in amusement, before noticing Graves’ stony expression. “Would you be so kind as to get started, Mr. Needlesham? We have several more stores to visit today and it would be a shame if we decide to go a more expeditious route and buy clothes ready-made at Warp, Woof and Twist’s.”

Not wishing to offend one of his best customers, Needlesham quickly summoned a tape measure and floating pencil and note book where he noted Credence’s measurements and assured his older cousin that he could expect finished clothing delivered by solstice, at the latest.

As they left the haberdashery, Credence chuckled, and Graves looked over at him. “It _was_ funny, Coffin and Graves, morticians at large.”

Graves gave him a sour look. “If you had my surname, you’d get tired of the bad puns and death jokes long before your sixteenth birthday, as I did. Tabitha at least got to change her name on marriage.”

Credence looked at him, confused. “I thought you liked your family, you sounded as though you were fond of your late parents.”

Graves sighed. “Oh, my parents were good people who loved me and I loved them and my father was an excellent role model of a fearless and principled auror. It’s just many times I was very conscious I had to live up to the family name, since my ancestors helped establish magical America as one of the Twelve Founding families.”

After the tailor’s, they went into several no-maj bookstores in Bookseller’s Row, the stretch of secondhand stores on Fourth Avenue just south of Union Square. Happily browsing in Schulte’s Bookstore, Credence found himself cradling collected stories of Sherlock Holmes, the latest mystery novel by Agatha Christie called _The Murder of Roger Ackroyd_ , two cookbooks, _The Velveteen Rabbit_ for Modesty and _The History of Witchcraft and Demonology_ by Montague Summers.

He was the recipient of Graves’ single raised eyebrow, arching like an epileptic caterpillar as he caught sight of the last title. Credence shot him a questioning look and Graves shrugged, piling up his purchases next to Credence’s selections—a history of the general Scipio Africanus, Pierre Louys’ erotic novel _The She-Devils_ , Dorothy Sayers’ _Clouds of Witness_ and _Collected Poems of Dorothy Parker_. Graves handed over his wallet to Credence, unwilling to fumble with the no-maj money in front of the cashier. Their purchases were wrapped in brown paper and string.

Graves had handily minimized the parcel once they were in a deserted alley, and Credence stowed the package, now the size of a large piece of fudge, in his pocket. He now knew how big a square of fudge was since they had stopped at a candy store for a snack where he had selected a maple flavored one for himself, chocolate for Modesty, and after a consultation with the man, vanilla for Mr. Graves.

The second time they side-apparated wasn’t quite as bad. Credence held Mr. Graves’ handkerchief to his mouth and only gagged a few times before regaining his composure. They had appeared behind the small church Mary Lou had ruled. No windows from neighboring buildings overlooked the small back paved area. The building looked as though it had been empty for years, not a week or so, probably because pigeons happily flew in and out of the huge gap in the brick wall and their droppings were already evident on the sagging edifice.

“Is there anything inside that you or Modesty might want?” Graves asked when Credence looked a bit less green.

“We need papers like birth certificates, adoption records or bank records so Testy and I can prove we are adopted and should get her money,” said Credence. Graves cleared out Mary Lou’s office, then accompanied Credence upstairs, his wand ready to cast a repair or cushioning charm if the stairs started to collapse under their weight as they went up them.

Credence took down a drawing pinned above his bed entitled “Dence and me walking” that Modesty had made him as a gift, a cross stitch sampler Chastity had sewn listing an alphabet of sins to avoid, Modesty’s winter hat and a small pendant on a dull silver chain decorated with violets (which symbolized modesty) hidden under a loose board along with her sketch book and colored pencils. He figured she could live without _Pilgrim’s Progress_ and the _Sermons of Cotton Mather_ , which had been Mary Lou’s idea of godly devotional bedtime reading.

“That’s it, except for my treasure box outside,” he said, putting the items down so Graves could shrink them as well, before he placed them in his inside breast pocket of his fine new coat. Graves extended his elbow and Credence placed his hand in the crook, bracing himself for apparition with a deep breath.

The trip to the alleyway was over in seconds, but Credence was happy to hang onto Mr. Graves for a little while longer, breathing in his cologne. Finally, he peeled himself away from his Protector and made his way to a dim corner, where he levered out two loose bricks and pulled out his tin of treasures and shoved the bricks back into place.

“Could you please make this so I can fit it in my other pocket?” he asked, once he extracted a wad of dollar bills in varying states of disintegration and three crisp twenties and put them in his new wallet.

“Of course,” agreed Graves and cast the minimizing spell.


	17. Memories, Imagination and the Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drinks and discussion after dinner... and some cuddling too.

After supper, Graves sat in his favorite large armchair sipping his evening glass of whiskey and Credence lay on his stomach on the floor at his host’s feet on an Oriental carpet, staring into the fire. It was quiet aside from the sounds of crackling wood in the hearth, and Graves turning The Ghost’s pages as he perused the sunset edition.

It was the sort of peaceful evening and quiet companionship that Credence had yearned for, without knowing it was one of the things he was missing from his life. He had known he was lacking obvious things like enough food, adequate clothing, affection and kindness instead of hunger, “discipline”, shame and pain. His mind was still trying to process all the things that had happened since he had woken up in the Goldsteins’ apartment.

He was magic, Modesty was magic, they had survived somehow-- and Chastity hadn’t. His Protector was patient with Credence and had taken him in, and spoiled, yes, spoiled, him with clothing and books and attention. Why Mr. Graves thought he was worth all this energy and more money than he wanted to consider, boggled Credence’s mind after years of being told he was nothing but a drain, a parasite and a freak. He couldn’t quite believe this was real. He kept wondering at what point Mr. Graves would tire of him and make him leave, or something would go wrong and things would go back to being horrible, which was at least a familiar feeling.

He reminded himself that his prayer this morning asked God to make him mindful of the needs of others. It didn’t feel right to keep taking selfishly all the time, though even taking anything seemed like too much, more than he should get. He knew how undeserving he was.

What could he do to help Mr. Graves? He considered what he knew of the intriguing older man. Mr. Graves seemed to own everything he wanted and needed. He had a beautiful house, and lovely clothes, but no family nearby. He had a job he excelled at, but no one at work had realized he’d been kidnapped. Grindelwald had taken his place for weeks. So...no close friends. And now he wasn’t being allowed to do his job, but instead Graves had to mind Credence the clueless and teach him easy spells that magical toddlers mastered before they lost their baby teeth.

He could do his best to learn magic and make Mr. Graves proud of him, he decided. He could listen and talk with Mr. Graves and learn to cook him breakfast. He could try to be a friend, even though he was terribly out of practice with friendship since Pat had died years ago. He ignored the small mocking voice inside him that pointed out that the man's friendship wasn’t all he was looking for, and that he was enjoying the casual touches Graves gave him far too much for it to be normal, for Credence to claim he was a normal man.

Impatiently, Credence stifled his guilt-ridden conscience and worries and thought about what practical things he could do for his protector. He could start by having a conversation with Mr. Graves, right now, he decided. Graves needed to realize he wasn’t alone anymore, he could talk with Credence.

Credence finally sighed and rolled over to his side, one hand propping up his head as he gathered his thoughts. “Something on your mind?” asked Graves attentively, setting aside his paper. He waved a hand and the lights went up enough that he could see Credence’s expression clearly.

“What you said this morning, about you being tired of being scared too,” he said, not quite a question or a statement.

“Well, yes, Grindelwald shook me up, it’s true,” agreed the older man, taking a final sip of his drink and putting the glass on a table at his elbow. “He overpowered me so easily, even though I threw all I had at him. Talk about hubris, I hadn’t been so overpowered so quickly in a one on one fight since Fee—President Picquery—took me down in under two minutes and she was two grades below me at school.”

“Why did your kidnapping remind you of the war, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I think it was that feeling of being a pawn—at least in the war one got some action mixed in the endless inactivity. I was frankly a mess when I came back from the front—screaming myself awake from nightmares. Lately I just scream myself awake thinking Grindelwald’s still got me—and I can’t do anything. I was thirsty, hungry, filthy and cold and then he’d hex me motionless and pry into my brain when he was bored with breaking my fingers one by one, or slashing cutting curses into my skin. He’d tell me about how he played with you, threatening you with punishment then acting caring, to keep you off-balance and searching for the obscurus.”

Graves looked over to see if this was more than Credence wanted to hear—if there was a hint of disgust or pity on his face, he would stop talking. He found neither and, reminding himself that Credence was a young man, in his twenties, not a child, he went on talking. Instead of Credence drawing back from his revelations, there was a calmness in the dark eyes and an accepting expression on his face.

“I know it gets better, eventually,” Graves went on. “When I wasn’t working, I basically got drunk and read books and distracted myself the last time. After a year or three, I wasn’t just operating like a machine in my job at MACUSA. I was starting to feel something like a man again, to take an interest in life. Not that certain things don’t remind me of the war or being imprisoned, but it helps to have a job teaching you to give my mind something to do, instead of going in circles of anxiety at what might happen. You'll feel better too when you feel safe and you know more magic and make some friends."

“Did you talk with friends about what you experienced during the war?” asked Credence, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

Graves thought about it. “If you hadn’t been through it, you didn’t understand, and the men I fought with were mostly Brits, living far from New York. So, no, I didn’t want to go there in my conversations with civilians, have my memories ruin their way of looking at the world. I didn't care to turn them to my cynical view that even with all that loss it wasn’t the War to End All Wars, it was just a bigger, longer, bloodier war than most.”  Mostly I kept to myself and didn’t revisit those memories of mustard gas and mortar rounds. I thought I’d forgotten most of my war memories until Grindelwald brought it all back again. May he be thrice-hung, drawn and quartered, the motherfucker.”

Credence sat still, listening, waiting, his head slightly cocked in question.

Graves sighed, sounding frustrated. “It’s like this, Credence-I can't really have close friends-I’m the Director, Head of Security for MACUSA, among the top government officials, I can’t be perceived as weak or unstable because it would politically affect my boss and ally, Seraphina Picquery. I can’t pal around over a beer after work with my subordinates and lose their respect by risking getting upset about things that happened to me. Much better that I’m viewed as the hard-ass cold-blooded bastard who doesn’t have softer feelings or interests outside of work.”

Credence looked over at him, his eyes moist. “That’s a lonely sort of life, I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you then. But you can tell me now, if it doesn’t bother you too much that I’m invading your solitary life.”

Graves grunted in acknowledgement at his offer and floated over the liquor bottle and poured himself a double. “You want any?” he asked, floating over a clean glass from the drinks cart.

Credence shook his head. “None for me, thank you, but I’ve got an apt quote for you. “Give wine to those who are in anguish; let them drink…and remember their misery no more.” Proverbs 31. I don’t think the bible has quotes about whiskey in particular.”

Graves snorted. “Yeah, no, because if there were a biblical quote for it, you'd know it.” He fell silent, looking broodingly at Credence and the fire behind him.

“The kind of alone I was as an obscurus was different than feeling alone as a person. I had Modesty to talk with as a human. Flying and picking up different cross currents in the wind and magical power was sort of an elemental conversation, or another way of reading things, but it wasn’t another presence to connect with, like a living being. Did he keep just you imprisoned?”

“Solitary. He forced me to give him far more information than just name, rank and serial number.” He took a healthy gulp and set down his drink.

“What did you think about to pass the time?” It seemed like both of them had had a lot of time alone with their thoughts, not with other people.

“I went through every charm, spell, cantrip, hex and glamour I could remember learning at Ilvermorny and afterwards, even though Grindelwald’s wards prevented me from actually performing them. I thought about figuring out ways to escape, and if not that, to kill myself if I didn’t die from his tortures first. And then, as time went on, I wondered if anyone would even notice it wasn’t me giving the orders until it was too late. He had shown up in my cell with my guise and I could see how people would be fooled, it was that good an imitation,” Graves said bitterly.

“I’m a man not just with feet of clay, but also a brain of clay to let myself be so careless as to let myself get taken unawares. At least, thank god, he didn’t target the President with his Polyjuice plan, but then her husband would have probably have noticed she was acting odd. Bad enough it was me, her right-hand man.”

“No one’s perfect except God,” said Credence, moving to kneel beside Graves, and daringly put one hand on the auror’s tense leg, “and I’m not so sure about that sometimes—why would a being that could change anything let evil wizards like Grindelwald harm good people or let Mary Lou terrorize little children?”

“Grindelwald was another sadist like Mary Lou, just with more power to hurt more people,” pointed out Graves. "Both of 'em absolutely sure they were right and their cause was righeous so they didn’t mind, indeed enjoyed, hurting those who even remotely challenged those beliefs.”

He put the hand not holding his drink over Credence’s hand and patted it. “You shouldn’t have had to live through what you did. It’s a miracle you are so good and kind a person despite all the shit that was thrown at you. And I’m lucky you choose to be so kind to me, your minder. Let’s talk about something else, okay?”

Credence thought hard. “Okay. When you were little, did you make someone up in your imagination?”

“A lot of kids have imaginary friends, I sure did. I was an only child until my sister Tabitha came along when I was five and it was another three or four years before she could play with me. My invisible friend was called Arthur and he was to blame for all the trouble I managed to find for myself on Graveshold’s grounds. I was a perfect angel-- it was all Arthur’s idea to leap off of walls so I broke my ankle or go running about with sticks jousting or playing Knights of the Round table with swords on quests. What was your imaginary friend’s name?”

“He wasn’t a boy like me, he was much older. Not my father or an older brother, though I imagined him looking out for me and teaching me things. I called him My Protector. I started talking to him in my head after I went to live at Mary Lou’s, and imagining our life together.”

Graves nodded, put down his drink, picked up his wand to enlarge the armchair to fit two people and pulled Credence up onto the cushions beside him. He mentally noted that Credence still was too lightweight for his height, as the skinny young man relaxed into the space beside him.

“We lived in the country and he never whipped or hit me when I was wrong or he was angry. There were horses and dogs and snowmen in the winter and leaf piles in the fall. My Protector told me he was proud of me and gave me hugs and someday, I dreamed, I would meet him and he would rescue me from Mary Lou,” Credence confided.

He gave Graves a shy crooked half-smile. “I know it sounds silly and childish, but those daydreams kept me going until I started my people watching game when I was eight and Mary Lou started having me hand out pamphlets. First, she had me learn our neighborhood with her and by the time I was ten I went further uptown by myself. I knew by then My Protector wasn’t coming for me. Chastity and then Modesty were adopted and so I needed to be as much like My Protector as I could be, and protect and teach them.”

“Of course you did, that’s why Modesty calls you the best older brother in the world.”

Credence flushed and ducked his head, only to be stopped by Graves’s forefinger under his chin. “Thank you,” he mumbled into his chest and the man’s hand.

“What’s that?” teased the older man, “I can’t hear you, sonny, I’m old enough to be your Protector’s grandfather.”

Credence lifted his head and looked his fill, for now, of Graves’s face. His searching eyes met amused dark chocolate ones. “Thank you for the compliment, Mr. Graves,” he said clearly and a little louder. “You don’t need to praise me for doing my brotherly duty.”

“Oh, but I do,” he replied. “look at Cain and Abel or Jacob and Esau, not terribly protective of their brothers, were they? There are any number of reasons to tell you how good and caring and decent you are. A regular mensch, as Tina Goldstein would say.”

Credence blushed harder, even his ears warming to pinkish. It was a delicious sight, thought Graves, storing away the lovely picture in his memory, with only a passing thought about why he found Credence’s flushed face so appealing.

“The main reason I said that, is because it’s the truth. Grindelwald lied to both of us, but I wouldn’t mislead you about anything important.”

“I know that… Do you know, I immediately thought about my childhood Protector the minute I laid eyes on you? And when I handed you the flier, the corners of your eyes had laugh wrinkles, just as I imagined him. When Grindelwald was masquerading as you, I never heard him laugh in a kind way and he barely smiled.”

Graves felt immensely flattered and caught off balance at the idea of being someone’s imaginary guardian, come to life. “I’m not a hero, Credence, I’m just a wizard trying to keep people safe through my work and a man in my private life who can sometimes be there for those who need him.”

“Like me,” said Credence firmly, snuggling further into his side. “I need you, you have a lot to teach me,” he said, turning his guileless gaze on Graves’ face, wondering how something so simple as snuggling next to someone could feel so good. He could feel the older man's body heat seeping into him, relaxing him.

Graves shifted so his arm was around Credence. “One day not too far in the future, you’ll surpass my teaching skills, and be able to make your way in the world, maj or no-maj, with even better teachers,” he promised, giving him an affectionate squeeze. He was never this willing to be close to people, but something about Credence drew him in, made him willing to be more open with him than others.

“Mmm," murmured Credence, noncommittally, closing his eyes and resting his dark curly-haired head on Grave’s shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere soon. You promised me we’d go see movies, a quodpot game and discuss books and see a magical concert and art museums and the hippogriff races at Ozone Park.  I’m going to cook you all the recipes Queenie teaches me… knishes, blintzes, kugel... and crumb cake and rugalach and chicken matzoh ball soup for when you have a cold…” His voice trailed off sleepily and a few minutes later he was out like a light. Graves watched him for a few minutes, Credence was so ... adorable when asleep.

Chuckling quietly, Graves levered himself carefully from the armchair and scooped Credence up in his arms. He carried him up to bed, removed his shoes and trousers and shirt and magicked a night shirt onto his lightly snoring form. Finally, he took Credence’s wand, pressed the elegant long fingers around it and slid the young man's hand and wand under his pillow and took his leave. Days with Credence in them were definitely eventful, and he had the rest of the report about the Barebone family to finish reading.


	18. Of Barebones, Burials and Blessings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves reads his department's dossier on the Barebones and makes some plans for time with Credence.

Two hours later, Graves closed the folder on the Barebones and leaned back in his office chair, a pensive expression on his face, his left forefinger across his lips as he considered what he had read and how growing up in this household must have affected Credence.

The Barebone family was not an unfamiliar name in Magical American History. There had been a number of all-too-efficient Scourers who had witch-hunted, adapting their methods and rallying cries to their times and hometowns. One had met his presumed end at the hands of Marie Laveau’s aunt. His death was classified as presumed because the bayou’s inhabitants never gave up fresh meat, especially when it was flavored with the piquant tastes of magic and revenge.

Mary Lou’s father had been born in Ohio, not far from the Serpent Mound, but he had made his living as a faith healer, folk doctor and holy roller preacher since witch-hunting was no longer a full-time profession in the nineteenth century. When his only son died of lockjaw from a dog bite at eight, Abraham Barebone had focused his attention on his only other surviving child, his daughter. His faith coupled with her mother’s fear of witches had created Mary Lou’s toxic theology and paranoid belief that witches and the sin they encouraged were behind every human evil and natural disaster in the world.

As a young woman in her twenties, she had convinced her Midwestern parents to join her in her battle for souls in Sin City, the great Mammon-loving sprawl that was New York City. They had died a few years after their arrival-- her father from a typhus outbreak and her mother after a long decline from tuberculosis. Her adoption of a youngster in 1908 from an orphanage when he was four, followed years later by two girl children was not remarkable. There were so many orphans and half-orphans in New York that there were not enough homes for them and many were shipped out to the Midwest to find shelter and work, if not a loving home and family.

It was only after the war that Mary Lou’s witch-baiting message caught fire and she had started to win a Lower East side following and some regular congregants. The reports from aurors on her preaching activities only got detailed in the last few years as she stepped up the anti-magic angle in her sermons and speeches. Hate groups were nothing new and many rabble rousers were active after the War spreading blame for society’s ill on the scapegoat of the month—communists, anarchists, feminists, homosexuals, union organizers, flappers and organized crime bosses.

Tina Goldstein had been assigned to watch the Second Salemers this past summer when they had taken their message to the heart of enemy territory and preached mere yards from the Woolworth building, MACUSA’s HQ. The Powers that Be in the magical world were nervous about this development and its Security squad and Graves had responded accordingly with heightened surveillance.

And now the Barebone family had been halved. The bodies of Mary Lou and Chastity had been subjected to various spells to detect residual curses or dark magic. Mary Lou’s corpse had inexplicably self-immolated into a handful of ash and no one had been in a rush to put out the flames. Chastity’s body was declared curse free after a week and was available for burial.

Auror Tina Goldstein had noted her discussion with Credence earlier this week about the location of Mary Lou’s parents’ graves in Queens. So he needed to pull a few strings and arrange for a plot in one of the huge cemeteries out there. He suspected Credence would be asking soon to see Modesty and would perhaps wish to attend Chastity’s burial. Outings that were forbidden when Credence was in Goldstein’s custody were not similarly limited under Graves'.

Graves thought about Credence’s concern for his sister Modesty and her well being. Auror Edith Garcia had noted the details of her questioning of Modesty, “a lively youngster who is a fierce loyal defender of her brother and readily accepted the information she is a witch” as she recovered from her injuries. A line of inquiry was being opened to delve into Modesty's family connections.

Modesty had been placed with Fiona Starkweather and her squib husband and her own letter indicated she was adjusting to her foster home. Graves thought he could put a face to Fiona Starkweather, but he wasn’t completely sure. People came and went in MACUSA’s departments, and he had enough details to track in his unit without worrying overmuch about other departments.

Well, he _had_ had a unit to oversee until he went and got kidnapped and dropped in Grindelwald’s oubliette. He resolutely turned his focus from that, and toward more cheerful thoughts. For now, his purview was the care, comfort, feeding and education of one Credence Barebone.

It seemed a reward and blessing that he no longer had to plan snippets of time, a lunch hour here and there with Credence, and that their time together was not merely comprised of healing Credence’s wounds, mouthing reassurance and motivating words for the young man to help alleviate the worst of despair. On that note, he decided to go to bed, it was nearly midnight. Perhaps this coming morning would be less traumatizing for them with no spells flying and Credence not diving under his bed in terror. He earnestly hoped so, for both of their sakes.


	19. Of riddles, paperwork and ice cream sundaes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence and Graves start their day with a good breakfast (coffee required), good company and good conversation and take a break for ice cream along the way...

**12/15/1926 7:13 a.m.**

Credence woke a bit later than his usual wake up time—about seven. Mr. Graves was usually stirring by half past seven, although he had warned Credence that he should not expect coherent conversation before his second cup of coffee, unless there was an emergency.

Credence lay in the soft bed, his mind wandering, letting his fingertips glide over the fine soft sheets and woolen blanket over the quilt. Pale winter sunlight came through a crack in the curtains. If you hadn’t been cold as he had, you couldn’t appreciate the simple luxury of warmth as he did, Credence thought.

Mr. Graves’ attention, his warm touches, brief as they were and mostly to instruct him during magic lessons felt like manna in the desert, a miracle he expected to end suddenly, but so far, they continued. He feared he might be coming to enjoy those hands firmly adjusting his wand grip or his stance far more than he should.

He had known the feel of those hands when it had been Grindelwald’s mind behind the touch, the edge of anger and impatience tainting what had been Credence's pure instinctive joy at having a protector. The fake Mr. Graves had held his neck in alleyways, crooning mindless comforting platitudes. Credence wanted to know if a possessive controlling gesture like that would feel different given by the real Mr. Graves, who was very careful with when and how he touched Credence, as though he was leery of frightening him.

He looked at the bedside clock and got out of bed. He wanted to have breakfast well underway before Mr. Graves awoke. The young man pulled on black pants, a forest green knit top and a grey sweater that was very soft and warm. He would make bacon, toast and scrambled eggs for their breakfast, as well as Mr. Graves' elixir of life, coffee.

A greyish colored owl tapped on the kitchen window as he mixed the eggs and milk and sprinkled in some dill. He let it in and gave it a treat as he had seen Mr. Graves do. Two letters were dropped on the counter. They looked terribly official with a return address from MACUSA. The owl left, and Credence took Mr. Graves’ letters to his place at the table. He jumped, unnerved, when they hissed at him threateningly until he put them down. He shot a few wary looks over his shoulder at the bellicose missives as he cooked the eggs, checked the toast and drained the grease from the bacon.

Murmuring a greeting, Graves sat down and immediately floated a cup of coffee into his eager hands, taking a fortifying swallow without burning his tongue. Now that was a useful sort of magic, thought Credence admiringly.

"Blessings on the species _Coffea Arabica_ and all forms of caffeine,” Graves said fervently and drank some more joe.

“Amen, I mean, so mote it be,” stammered the cook’s hesitant voice as he brought the bacon and eggs and toast to the table.

“Would you like to try some coffee with mocha—chocolate flavoring—in it? Or perhaps vanilla?"

“Which do you recommend, sir?” he asked as he buttered his toast after seating himself.

“You liked chocolate cake, so start with mocha,” suggested Graves, a fond look on his face as he remembered Credence’s rapturous encounter with chocolate layer cake some months ago. He floated another cup for Credence, murmured “Addere scelerisque, non adere.”

Credence took a cautious sip and found it to the perfect temperature, warming but not burning, the chocolate a nice blend with the coffee's taste. “How do I do the nonburning part?”

“ _Non adere_ ,” said Graves, and his fingers moved in a wavy downward motion like rain or water falling. Then he showed Credence the wand version, a figure eight swish on its side, in a falling motion. Credence nodded, and practiced on his eggs which had been visibly steaming.

He looked over at Mr. Graves, one eyebrow raised in inquiry. Graves set his cup down with some reluctance and folded his hands. Credence took that as permission to begin. “We thank you for caffeine and chocolate and cooling spells and this bounty of food, let it nourish us to do good in the world today. So mote it be, amen."

Mr. Graves murmured his response and picked up his two letters, which gave off a pleased humming noise, like a purr.

“Do they bite if you open them and it’s not your letter?” asked Credence.

“The charm is in the experimental stages, we’re testing it on government correspondence so most mail doesn’t hiss or hum, it just has various protective charms. The worse these beauties would do is give you some wicked paper cuts, probably one under each of your fingernails.” Credence winced at the memory of pamphlet folding and dug into his eggs, saving the bacon for last.

Graves read one letter, set it aside and opened the second. He gave a small noise of approval. Credence looked over at him, curious about why he was pleased.

“Change of plans. We have permission from MACUSA’s Powers that Be to go to the no-maj bank where Mary Lou had her accounts and Mr. and Mrs. Starkweather, along with Modesty, will meet us there at 10.”

“I can see her today? Really?” a grin spread across Credence’s face, exposing his dimples.

“Truly,” Graves reassured him. After breakfast was done, he gathered together the official documents pertaining to Modesty for the Starkweathers and Mary Lou’s legal paperwork and banking papers. He also included a redacted copy of the file on the Barebone family for Modesty’s guardians in the briefcase he transfigured for the meeting with the bank official.

He altered his coat with a few spells to one with a less flashy lining, smaller sleeves and less flare to how it hung. He looked like a professional man, a no-maj one, which was kind of the point today, to blend in as much as possible. Credence was so excited he wanted to dash over to the bank the minute it opened. Cooler heads prevailed and he instead accompanied Mr. Graves to three art supply stores in the Village to buy colorful paints and tools for Modesty as a Christmas gift in case they couldn’t be together that day.

Once they were free from no-maj observers, he taught Credence how to minimize things and the tiny brushes, paper, chalks, paints and pastels were stowed in the briefcase. At Mr. Graves’ direction, Credence found a pair of dangling jade earrings with snakes on them. “She was in Slytherin House at Hogwarts, so Mrs. Starkweather will like them,” he assured Credence. For Mr. Starkweather, who was a teacher, Credence found an elegant black fountain pen with silver spirals that ended in a knob. It reminded him of a wand, somehow. Mr. Graves conjured up gilt and silver paper and ribbons and used magic to wrap up all the gifts in seconds.

Finally Mr. Graves turned their steps in the direction of the Manufacturer’s Trust Building at the corner of Canal and Broadway.

“Modesty!” cried Credence, as he spotted his sister across the marble floored bank. A bank employee looked at him disapprovingly for his loud voice.

He held out his arms and was hurt when she stubbornly refused to let go of either the man or woman’s hand that was holding hers. Next to him, Mr. Graves stiffened, alert that something was wrong.

“Testy?”

She looked up at Credence and jerked her chin toward Mr. Graves. “If he was replaced by an imposter and no one guessed, how do I know that you’re really you?”

Credence was at a loss. “What do you want me to tell you to prove it that it’s me, your brother?”

Modesty looked up at the red haired woman for suggestions. “Remember the story of the Sphinx I told you the other night? Ask him riddles only he can answer,” Fiona suggested.

The girl brightened and let go of their hands.  “Okay Credence, what couldn’t Chastity do?”

“She couldn’t sing, she was an awful singer,” said Credence quickly.

“Mine—purple mountains. Yours?” she inquired. He had taught her the lyrics to America the Beautiful and they had each picked a favorite line. “Alabasters cities gleam, undimmed by human tears,” he replied, stepping closer to her as she started to smile, mischievously.

“What did I tease you about when you told me about meeting Mr. Graves?” Credence darted a glance at the auror and the Starkweathers and flushed bright red. He stooped down and whispered in her ear, “You asked me if I wanted to kiss him. And yeah, I still do.”

“Dence!” she said happily and threw herself into his embrace. Soon after a bank clerk ushered them into an office where Mr. Graves produced papers with Mary Lou’s account information, an old will splitting her assets among her surviving adopted children and to NSPS if she had no living heirs. A bit of magic behind the scenes had helped speed up the will in probate tremendously.

Credence and Modesty and the Starkweathers signed a lot of papers. When they were finished and Modesty and Credence each found themselves the possessors of a tidy sum of money, Mr. Graves proposed a visit to Schraff’s Ice Cream at 13th Street and Fifth Avenue. Modesty agreed with enthusiasm, despite the cold day.

They took the subway uptown, even though Credence privately thought it an extravagance when every one of them could walk just fine. He was glad they didn’t apparate there, he didn’t want to embarrass himself by puking on his new clothes. He was happy to see that Modesty had new warm clothes and shoes as well.

Modesty and Credence split a chocolate sundae with bananas on top and whip cream, while the other three had small dishes of ice cream and coffee and talked in low tones about current events in the wizarding world in voices that didn’t carry. Credence was flattered when Mrs. Starkweather said she was glad Modesty had memorized so many poems that Credence had taught her, it would be useful for learning incantations and charms. Mr. Starkweather said Modesty had a real artistic gift and was very helpful to him in his greenhouse.

“What good things do you do for Mr. Graves, Credence?” asked Modesty cheekily in a break in the conversation. Mr. Graves smiled benignly at Credence, curious as to how he would answer.

“I make him breakfast, we learn magic and talk with each other so neither of us feels alone,” Credence said finally, coming up with something true, but innocuous, to share.


	20. Holiday Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence and Modesty share a sundae, start a list and Graves makes holiday plans...

When their spoons were clanking at the bottom of the ice cream dish, Credence leaned over to Modesty and asked in a low voice, “Do you want to have a funeral for Chastity, or do we want to just put up a memorial headstone for her and Mary Lou?”

“I’ll wear a black armband for my sister, but I’m not going to act like I’m sorry Mary Lou’s dead or pray for her mean soul at some fake service,” retorted Modesty decisively.

“Okay, I’ll ask Mr. Graves whether he can arrange to have Chaz buried quietly out in Glendale. Mary Lou somehow ended up as a pile of ashes between when I killed her and now.”

“It wasn’t you, Credence, it was the Scurus-monster.”

Credence started to protest that the monster had been part of him, but Testy smacked her hand over his mouth. “Shut up, Dence, you know I’m right.”

He licked her ice-cream sticky palm and when she took it away with a small shriek of disgust, rubbing her damp hand on a napkin, Credence said innocently, “such rudeness, Modesty, I’m sure respecting your older brother, the big cheese, is up there with honor thy father and mother.”

She peered at him with an evil glint and muttered, “Wizard bastard.”

“Witch bitch,” he murmured back, faked a horrified look and then grinned. “Feels good, huh?”

She laughed and said, “the next forbidden thing after ice cream and cursing I’ll do is dancing.”

“I want to try a shrimp cocktail. And lobster.”

“Sleep in on Sundays.”

Credence nodded. “ Yeah. I want to go see the Follies of 1926 show. We’ll make a list of everything we weren’t supposed to even think about doing, and try and do them at least once in our life, deal?”

“Ab-so-lute-ly,” agreed Modesty with great enthusiasm, and they shook on it.

“Good thing I haven’t taught you any wizarding oaths yet, gods and demiurges only know what she’d bamboozle you into agreeing to, Credence,” said Graves, watching them with amusement and a touch of suspicion. “Maybe your immortal soul for chocolate milkshakes.”

“He’s not a rube!” said Modesty, instantly defending Credence. “I wouldn’t hurt Credence, I want him to be happy. He deserves it!”

“Hear, hear!” said Mr. Starkweather, raising his coffee cup in a toast in Credence’s direction and Mrs. Starkweather agreed, raising her cup and looking at Credence as though she knew about the beatings. Testy was a chatterbox once she was comfortable with someone, so Mrs. Starkweather had probably heard all about the torments of life with Mary Lou.

Finding himself the center of attention, Credence flushed and said in a panicky voice, “I gotta go iron my shoelaces,” and fled to the bathroom to splash water on his face and take deep breaths until he calmed down. Being someone’s focus, even for a good reason, like admiration, felt unsafe, like Mary Lou would notice and return from the dead to beat him for the sin of pride.

He looked at his face in the mirror, wondering why Mr. Graves thought him attractive. He seemed more normal looking, better with longer hair, sure, and he might have a healthier skin tone, a bit less like a corpse after a few days of regular meals. His eyebrows still arched the same way and the straight line of his nose was just a basic nose.

He kept breathing, slowly and deeply until his pounding heart started to settle down. “You’re okay, you’re safe, Modesty’s safe, Mr. Graves will protect you,” he repeated to himself until he was starting to believe it.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door, making his anxiety shoot up again. “Credence? I’m going to come in, okay?” came Mr. Graves’ unmistakable tones.

“Yes, all right,” said Credence, faintly, still gripping the edge of the sink. He braced himself for the words of reproach he merited for his immature and rude behavior. He wanted Mr. Graves to be proud of him and he had screwed up, embarrassed him in front of other wizards, Modesty’s foster parents, no less. God, he would feel awful if they punished her for kidding around with him in the restaurant. Instinctively he hunched over to make himself a smaller target.

“What happened back there, hey?” the auror asked in soft tones.

Graves cautiously placed a hand on Credence’s back and kept it there even though he flinched. “Shh, it’s okay…” He was reminded of the background report he read on Credence last night.

Credence choked out his answer. “I’m sorry, everyone was looking at me and nothing good ever comes of that, and I needed to get away before… before I shamed you and myself further. Please tell the Starkweathers it was all my fault, they mustn’t punish Modesty for us acting silly.”

“Breathe,” Graves rumbled, “keep breathing for me, nice deep breaths. That’s a fellow, keep breathing—in – and—out. No one is going to get punished or yelled at, you and Modesty didn’t do anything wrong. It was just high spirits at seeing each other and being out from under that horrible woman’s thumb.”

“I’m not a child, she is. I know better.” He didn’t want to be punished, but he wanted to be truthful to Mr. Graves.

“Credence, I’m not going to tell you you’re awful when are you trying so hard to learn magic and adjust after a few days to a new life after being a no-maj for twenty-two years. You’re a good person. I’m proud of what you’ve done so far in your life and I’ll keep being proud as you grow into your power as a wizard. Someday you’re going to believe me when I tell you this. And someday you won’t mind someone complimenting you or being the center of attention for something praiseworthy that you did.”

Credence couldn’t quite take it in. His Protector was proud, not angry with him. The world must have altered in its rotation or something, that there was nothing wrong and nothing for which he would be blamed and beaten. He knew it wasn’t manly, but something gave way in his chest and he began crying, choking desperate sobs. He clutched the sink until he was tugged around, enclosed by warm arms and his face nestled on Graves’ shoulder, and he was rocked and held as he cried until he realized he must be getting snot all over Mr. Graves’ fine clothes and tried to struggle free.

“Shh, it’s okay, that’s what cleaning spells are for. Tergeo,” said Mr. Graves, holding on to him with one arm. He tilted up Credence’s face and met his wet eyes with a sympathetic gaze. “You’re fine, I’ve got you,” he said again, and mopped up the young man’s tears for the second time in as many days with his handkerchief. He did a charm that banished the red from around Credence’s long-lashed eyes.

“This isn’t me, I just don’t cry, even after a beating,” said Credence, bewildered, still enclosed in Graves’ comforting arms. “I’m sorry, I’m not a baby, I don’t know why…”

“Maybe you’re starting to feel safe enough to express your pain that you didn’t dare think about when you were in the middle of it. I used to get myself blind drunk and then I could bring myself to cry about the war. I did that any night I didn’t have to work early the next morning for the first year after the war. It was a wonder the medics didn’t have to bespell my liver to remove toxins,” offered Graves.

“Sometimes Tabitha would come check on me and stay over to keep an eye on me when I felt really low. Not that I told her much, but it was good to have someone else nearby, I felt less lonely. Let’s just say it was a good thing I didn’t try to light cigarettes on those nights or I would have immolated myself from the liquor fumes. I try to limit myself to one vice at a time, you see.”

“I’m glad you didn’t catch yourself on fire, either,” said Credence, hiccupping a little. “But I’m sorry you didn’t have a protector to help you out, like I have you.”

“Are you all right to go out again and talk with the Starkweathers and Modesty?”

Credence nodded and gulped. Mr. Graves’ hand on the small of his back was reassuring as was ushered back to their table. It felt wonderful to have someone who had his back, literally as well as figuratively.

“Good, I think we have a holiday party to plan,” Graves said as he slid into the chair next to Credence.

Modesty clapped her hands and bounced on her seat. “Credence! Dancing—we can cross it off our forbidden things list!”

“I’m happy to offer my place for our exclusive family and friends shindig,” said Mr. Graves, smiling slightly at Modesty’s unbridled enthusiasm before turning his attention back to her brother. “Are you willing to be the co-host, Credence?”

“If—if you show me what you need done and tell me how to help. I don’t know what people like at parties, sir,” agreed Credence, his eyes gleaming as his sister urged him to “say yes, Credence, say yes…”

“We’ll bring some gigglewater and a girl who wants to dance,” promised Fiona Starkweather, smiling at Modesty.

“Can we invite Miss Tina and Queenie, Mr. Graves?” asked Credence. He liked their company and maybe Queenie would bring some of her amazing strudel. He wanted Modesty to meet the sisters who had been so kind to him.

“Of course. Anyone else?”

Credence hesitantly suggested—“Maybe your sister and her husband and sons, Mr. Graves?”

“If we have this on New Year’s Day, they should be available, so sure, why not. Winter solstice is usually a quieter holiday.”


	21. Self-Pedagogy for Wizards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence has a fresh way to do old spells...

**December 19, 1926  8:13 am**

He could get used to the occasional house guest if they were all as thoughtful as Credence, Graves thought, as he stretched his muscles, and woke up with a wide yawn and a nice popping of his neck. Credence had begun a pre-breakfast routine since he was invariably awake before his host. He brought coffee up to Graves’ bedroom door and called out, “Joy and caffeine shall be yours in the morning… wake up, Mr. Graves!”

Once Graves had grunted out his thanks and rolled over, and dropped his bedroom wards, Credence came in and handed over the warm cup, his scarred fingers brushing Graves’ eager coffee-addict hands. The young man sat, perched cross legged, in sock-feet atop the bed coverlet and watched with relish and a small smile on his face as Graves wordlessly enjoyed his coffee. After Graves had had enough coffee he inquired if Credence had slept well, had any interesting dreams or wanted to do anything special today.  Credence replied, “We’ll talk about things over our meal, I promise. Being hungry doesn’t help with anything.”

Graves murmured an agreement and either pulled on his robe and slippers or got dressed for the day. He had, with some regret, set aside the tie and vest he used to wear for work since much of their time together was devoted to teaching Credence magic via demonstration and a basic outfit of trousers and shirt sleeves gave him the freedom of movement he needed.

Credence, for one, thought his host looked a little more approachable without his armor of vest, tie, jacket, coat and scarf. He wanted to get at least halfway through the next three chapters’ worth of first year spells by two, when Queenie Goldstein was coming by to take him shopping for a solstice gift for Mr. Graves, when some of the wizarding shops were open Sunday afternoon for last minute Solstice shoppers.

He cooked them oatmeal and Canadian bacon for breakfast and practiced summoning the maple syrup jug from the pantry, wordlessly and with a spread five finger gesture as he’d seen his host do last week. It skidded into Mr. Graves’ second cup of coffee, sloshing it a bit, to Credence’s chagrin, but otherwise leaving everything intact.

“Fond of maple syrup, eh?” asked Mr. Graves, sprinkling brown sugar on his oatmeal and adding a bit of cream.

“Yes,” said Credence trying to not react to the question as though it was a reason to apologize or worry. He took a sip of his coffee to distract himself.

“Good. The oatmeal tastes good, too,” he said complimenting Credence.

“Thank you,” he said, his bangs hiding a bit of his face as he kept his eyes on the cereal steaming in his bowl as he carefully spooned it up, trying not to rush his meal since it wouldn’t be taken from him. Half way through he dropped his spoon in the bowl with a clank. “Oh no!”

“Hmm, what’s wrong?”

“I forgot to say grace!”

“You could say it now, if you wanted. No harm done. Or if you prefer, I could recite a blessing.”

“You do it,” Credence almost whispered, not sure if he was mortified at forgetting or pleased that something he had beaten into him, the importance of imploring God for blessings and being grateful for the smallest bit of sustenance had dropped from his routine like an autumn leaf from a tree in its appointed time.

Graves cleared his throat. “May we always be blessed with walls for the wind, a roof for the rain, a warm cup of tea by the fire, food and drink aplenty, laughter to cheer us, those we love near us, and all that our hearts might desire, so mote it be.”

“What if you don’t particularly like tea?” objected Credence, though he had no arguments with the sentiments otherwise.

“I probably should have adapted it for American coffee drinking wizards, that’s true,” agreed Graves, raising his coffee in acknowledgement of Credence’s point before drinking another swallow. “It’s an Irish blessing that has come down in my family.”

They finished the meal in relative silence, with Credence trying to solve a crossword puzzle with Graves’ help while the older man read an article about the cold snap breaking and the mercury due to rise. “Warmer weather, that will make your shopping trip more pleasant. What would you like to do this morning? Play checkers or shall I teach you some card games like Go Fish or Black Jack?”

Credence shook his head. “I’m only part way through the first year textbook, sir. I need to learn this more than I need to learn different ways to be led astray with cards, the Devil’s prayer book.”

Graves shook his head. Damn, but Credence was a driven student. He wondered why this previously unsuspected trait existed, maybe from being forced to quit school at fourteen?

“You said I’m powerful,” said Credence, almost accusingly, interrupting Graves’ musings.

“I did, and you are,” he shot back.

“So why are we doing this long process of I read about a spell, its theory and applications, then memorize Latin and wand movements and finally I demonstrate it to you?”

Graves blinked. “It works for most students, so that’s the form magical pedagogy takes,” he explained, not fully getting Credence’s point.

Credence sighed. “I mean, why learn the Latin and elaborate wand movements?” He placed his wand in his newly acquired arm holster. “Couldn’t I just do –this—" he flicked his hand and summoned a bottle of whiskey from the living room. It bobbed in the air in front of Graves like a balloon on a short string.

“That’s a disrespectful way to treat a liquor that’s so much older than you, you immature whelp,” said Graves, finally grasping the bottle and putting it down on the sideboard in the sitting room. He looked shrewdly at his pupil. “What else have you mastered besides wandless and wordless Wingardium Leviosa and Accio for syrup and booze?”

“Color changes,” the younger man pointed at Graves’ shirt which altered to a holly berry red, “callings things out of thin air,” he added a green carnation to his buttonhole, “and cleaning charms--” a hand flick and the coffee stain on the tablecloth in the kitchen from the erratic maple syrup jug was erased.

“I don’t want to do the hexes I’ve learned on you, though,” he confessed, and cast a Protego over himself. “Try a curse on me.”

Graves threw a Jelly Legs jinx and bat booger hex, and was pleased to see both bounced off harmlessly. “Add more layers to your shields,” he ordered, and, pulling his wand, threw a stronger, purple pustules hex that Seraphina had taught him during their school days. He was pleased to see Credence remained unharmed and instinctively managed to turn the strongest hex back and get it half way to Graves before it fizzled against the auror’s shields.

“Good work. I do want you to learn both defensive and offensive magic, though. We’ll try doing it your way for a while, you smart boy.” Credence smiled at the compliment, his dimples showing.

“One concern I have is that you may have an idea and manifest it, without thinking. Having a slight delay to form words and wand movements matching action to thought is, I guess, a bit like a safety valve for rash magical impulses,” Mr. Graves said. “But wandless and wordless would also make you a formidable duelist, if that’s your goal.”

“A rash impulse, like you healing me, a poor little no-maj?” asked Credence. He floated up a few inches, and over to Graves and looked him in the eyes.

“Mercy Lewis, Credence! Warn a fellow before you do such a thing!”

“Why is wandless and wordless not taught to children? There must be wizards who are handicapped in some way and can’t speak clearly because they’re deaf or mute or can’t easily hold a wand or stand in a particular fashion. I’m sure not every ailment can be cured with magic.  They aren’t left ignorant, are they?”

Graves thought about it, this wasn’t anything he’d ever considered. Credence had a way of making him question his world that was interesting and challenging. “I guess they are tutored at home, for the most part,” he guessed, “but I really don’t know.”

“Power is another reason for teaching spells using those methods. Most witches’ and wizards’ magical levels don’t reach adult levels until about sixteen to eighteen and most don’t fully mature until their mid twenties in most cases. We continue to accrue skills to augment our natural power until our forties or fifties. At that point experience and knowledge will provide an advantage for those with only average power levels. Which you certainly don’t have to concern yourself about, you show-off,” he said pointedly as Credence stretched out comfortably on his side in midair and propped his head up with a bent arm.

“Not a squib, huh?” he retorted, pleased he could surprise his tutor.

Graves shook his head, rueful that he had entertained such an idea for even ten minutes. He hadn’t expected Credence to be a poor student, but he also hadn’t expected this unorthodox approach to learning magic that seemed to be improving his magical abilities by huge leaps. Visualization and raw power, in addition to his impatience, meant that more of Credence’s time could go to learning potions and about wizarding culture, magical creatures—really, anything that took Credence’s fancy.

“Do me a favor, Credence?” he said finally.

The young man sobered instantly and settled himself back down on his feet attentively.

“Sir?” he asked with a note of anxiety in his voice. 

“Promise you won’t completely stop using your wand, you don’t want disuse and disloyalty to make it turn against you in a critical moment. It will help focus your power more tightly, give more control. Sometimes you need a pin prick rather than a sledgehammer, finesse rather than force.”

“I promise, Mr. Graves,” he said, nodding. “I wanted to do it your way first, and I tried it for a while until I just had to say something. I don’t mean to seem ungrateful for what you’ve done for me or imply that you’re not a powerful wizard and dangerous man with a lot to teach me about your world…” he ran out of breath.

“Glad you think the old dog can still teach you some new tricks,” said the auror gruffly.

“I **_will_** study the Latin and wand movements,” asserted Credence, surprising his teacher. “Not primarily to learn how to do magic, but mostly to reassure the politicians that I have normal magic and a normal way of learning magic, so no one is frightened by me. Well, no more than they already were by the Obscurus,” he added wryly. “It’s better for everyone if they think I’m a regular wizard when they finally come to you wanting to try me in court or MACUSA wants to question me. Huh, that phrase sounds strange: “regular wizard.”

Graves was struck speechless at Credence’s consideration of all the larger ramifications of his actions. His years of people watching had made him savvy about how to placate frightened people who had power or little power and how to blend in when he needed to be unnoticed in a crowd.

“You really are a marvel, Credence. I wouldn’t expect such insights from someone raised no-maj or even a maj from a family unused to political wheelings and dealings.”

Credence blushed and ducked his head. “I’m gonna go study now, Mr. Graves, so I can go shop with a pure conscience,” he said, pleased he had impressed his teacher, but scared that if he stayed any longer in the same room, he would give in to his impulse to hug Mr. Graves for his kind words and praise. And if he got the hug he wanted, he was afraid he wouldn’t want to ever let go.


	22. Gifts and Flirtations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Queenie takes Credence shopping, Credence is hit on and discovers a steamy novel...

**December 19, 1926 2:15 pm**

Queenie had swirled in past Graves’ house wards at a few minutes past two in a lingering wafting sweet scent of Rose L’Odeur perfume and a pink coat and kissed a shocked Head Auror’s cheek in greeting before she gently wiped off most of her stray lipstick with her thumb.

Usually his appearance and position kept him untouched aside from formal handshakes, which he preferred— anyone showing him affection publicly was going to put cracks in his tough guy reputation. Somehow Queenie’s sweetness and unaffected happy attitude snuck past his defenses, much as Credence’s very different mien had. He put that thought aside as the pretty witch chatted with him.

“Thanks so much for taking such good care of him, Mr. Graves. Me and Tina are really keen to see Credence happier, and he is. Oh Credence, you ready to shop ‘til we drop, you sweet thing?”

“Yes, Queenie,” said Credence, trying not to giggle at the dumbfounded expression on Graves’ face as he put his hand to the cheek she had bussed. When he pulled his hand away, his fingertips had a faint smear of red on them. Perplexed, he sniffed them. “Cherry?” he asked, as Credence shrugged on his coat and hat, and wrapped a soft scarf about his neck.

“Sure thing, it’s all the rage,” she said, grinning. “Leave it on and let your legion of fans wonder what you’ve been up to.  C’mon, let’s beat feet, Credence.” Graves rolled his eyes and told them to have a good time as he cleaned his cheek and fingers of Queenie’s warpaint with a quick charm.

Still amused, Credence left the townhouse and followed in her wake, feeling like a dingy tugboat trailing a classy seagoing yacht. She took his arm and bounced excitedly. “This is going to be so much fun! Have you done side along apparition before?”

“I might get sick,” he warned her, remembering his embarrassment at puking in front of Percival Graves. “Okey dokey,” she said, “I’m warned. Hang on, honey.”

It seemed to get a bit more bearable each time he did it. “Here, have a peppermint stick,” she offered, pulling one out of her purse, “and let’s get us a cocoa or coffee and a nosh and figure out what stores we should visit.”

“I’ve already gotten gifts for Modesty and the Starkweathers,” he said once they were ensconced in a cozy nook in a Village café just inside the witching district. “I wanted to get something for Tina and you, well, I guess it won’t be a surprise now, but I figured you would read my mind about it anyway. And… I wanna get Mr. Graves a wonderful gift. He’s done so much for me, I don’t know how I’ll ever repay him…”

“Maybe he doesn’t wanna be repaid. Seems to me like you make each other happy, it’s not like a tit-for-tat business deal in his head where he’s expecting you to repay him in dragots and gold coins.” Credence looked at her, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“Oh rusting cauldrons, I probably shouldn’t have shared that,” she said, not sounding terribly upset as she took a big bite of her Napoleon pastry to cover her embarrassment. “Do you like him as more than a friend, Credence, or is it just you’re glad to be in a safe place with someone helpful to talk with?”

Credence looked at her, astonished at her frankness.  He flushed as he thought about how differently some magic people viewed inverts from no-maj attitudes of repulsion and condemnation that he was accustomed to. He could tell that Queenie would be as supportive if he confessed to a crush on a witch as a crush on another wizard. It wouldn’t matter, as a friend, she’d be delighted on his behalf that he had found someone he liked and was falling for…

“Both, I think,” Credence said finally.  “Please don’t tell him, though. I’m sure he thinks of me as a sort of junior mascot or charity case to distract himself until he can go back to work. And that’s fine, for now, I know what I am and what he is.  I know I am not useful in this world. I don’t know anything much about magic and I can’t earn a living as a wizard until I learn a lot more. And I’m sure Mr. Graves has all sorts of lovely ladies interested in him, anyway.”

Queenie looked upward and to the left, searching her memory. “Eh, I don’t remember any gossip like that since I came to work at MACUSA ten years back. People assume he and the President were or are an item since they’ve been close allies for years. She’s married to some British wizard but her husband has only appeared in public only a handful of times. She likes to keep her private life very private.”

“But what about Per—Mr. Graves? Does he even like wizards—like that?” asked Credence diffidently.

“Tina said something about Newt’s brother—a long ways back? Sorry, I don’t remember, it was a thing during the war, maybe? I ain’t never seen him spooning with anyone in a back corridor at MACUSA, that’s for sure. I do know he’s fond of you, even anyone who’s mind-blind could see that. Sorry honey, I can’t remember anything else.”

“No, that’s okay, you’ve given me something to think about, Miss Queenie,” said Credence, shaking his head and changing the subject. “Tell me what Tina likes.”

“She has a weakness for silk blouses, for all she’s always getting mustard on them. But that’s maybe a little personal to get for a friend?”

Credence nodded. “What else?”

“Let’s go look in a jeweler’s, I’ve got an eye on a wristwatch we could go in for together.”

 

“Oh, that’s so Tina!” said Queenie, bouncing up and down in her kitten heels as the salesperson offered the watch first to Credence to examine, assuming, wrongly, that the man was the money behind the purchase.

“It’s nice,” said Credence, because what did he know about women’s watches. He racked his brains to come up with something more to say to Queenie, who was looking expectantly at him. “I think it looks really smart, like a business woman would wear, but it’s different from a lot of watches with the octagonal face and gold numbers.” He handed it over to Queenie who checked out the clasp and casing as well as the stitching on the leather band.

“Exactly! That’s Tina all over, she’s very professional, but she can’t help caring about people. We’ll take it,” she told the sales clerk who murmured “thank you madam,” and disappeared to a backroom to wrap it up in gilt paper with dark blue ribbon and ring up the purchase.

“Let’s look at the men’s cufflinks while we’re here,”she suggested, steering Credence to another glass-fronted display cabinet.

“Those,” said Credence a minute later, pointing out a pair of sterling silver oval ones, with an onyx inset cabochon.  They were perfect for Percival Graves, less boring than another scarf. A simple yet classic design,the cufflinks had dark colored stones like his eyes. They would go perfectly with the powerful yet elegant impression that he associated with the Director. He had enough money to cover their cost plus some money towards Tina’s watch and some left over for Queenie’s gift.

“It’s not going to be a surprise, but what about something pink for you?” Credence said, noticing among the women’s earrings a pair of carved coral roses dangling from yellow gold chains. “You’re a doll, those are keen!” Queenie declared and gave him a hug with an extra squeeze before having the clerk ring up their three gifts.

“Are you set then for gifts, Cree?”

He quirked his mouth in amusement at his new nickname. “Sure, Quee.”

She laughed. “Morgana, I think we’re going to have a running joke outta our rhyming names. Do you want to go to a bookstore now?”

“If you don’t mind?” he said. They had some time before he had told Mr. Graves they would return.

Queenie found a comfortable stuffed armchair and settled in to read a trashy romance entitled “My Forbidden No-Maj Love” while Credence went looking for some titles on wandless magic. In his search, he found himself in a dimly lit section of… erotica?

The titles alone made his face flush—“Wanton Witches win Wily Warlocks” “Wands of Lust” “Animagus Amours” and “The Wizard’s Passionate Protégé…” The last he couldn’t resist pulling down from the shelf and opening. A few minutes later, he surfaced from the steamy narrative of flirtation and adventure and decided, despite his embarrassment at buying smut, that he had to find out if Amergin and Patrick had sex and ended up living happily ever after.

A few aisles over, he found the shelves (only two, he noted with disappointment) on wandless magic. Skipping over titles he recognized from his host’s library he came up with seven promising books. Two he was able to return to the shelves in short order—they were mostly a defense of the superiority of magic using wands, denigrating the native shamanic traditions that did not utilize wands to channel power, nothing useful there. Of the remaining five, one was a child’s fairytale and one was way above his head, discussing magical equations showing power offsets and chi and prana inputs with lots of footnotes and abstruse diagrams and sigils.

Stashing “The Wizard’s Passionate Protégé” between the three wandless magic books, he purchased the pile, ignoring the suggestive wink from the young blond male clerk at the counter whose fingers lingered on his palm as he returned Credence’s change and thanked him a little too intensely, telling him he was very, very—welcome—to visit this establishment again.

Credence was floored at the man’s forwardness. Why had he chosen to flirt with him? Was he really desperate or something? Credence thought he himself wasn’t anything much to look at, though his new clothes and regular meals were helping make him look less like a scarecrow. Queenie sauntered up behind him and shot a menacing look at the bookstore employee. “Guess I won’t be getting this,” she said, putting the no-maj/witch romance book to the side.

“Bank's closed, buddy, you ain’t getting no interest from him.” She turned her attention to Credence and took his arm. “C’mon, your sugar daddy is waiting for ya, let’s go,” she directed, and led him outside into the December afternoon.

“He was sure tryin’ to make a move on you. You could’ve given him the icy mitt before his flirting with you got much further. Just tell him you’ve got a man already. Looked like he was gonna invite you to join him for some bathtub hootch and a let’s compare our wand sizes game any minute there.”

Credence flushed scarlet at her frank language. “I thought, maybe I was mistaken, he wasn’t really… trying to chat me up?” Credence said, as they made their way across the street to an alley where they could apparate.

“And why wouldn’t he? You’re a looker, specially now that you’re standing up tall and not scared of every little thing.”

“I don’t want just anyone. You know who I want,” Credence said firmly, still unsure how much of the compliment she made was Queenie being nice and how much was true.

Queenie nodded. “Maybe that sexy book you snuck in with your more educational books will give you some ideas on how to approach Mr. Graves, huh? And I’m not fibbing about your looks either, so you can stop thinkin’ that. You’re dishy, doll, no two ways about it.”

She left him soon after on the townhouse stoop, holding a bag containing his gift for Mr. Graves and their joint gift for Tina as well as his new books. She wore her new earrings home, the coral rosebuds swinging jauntily from her ears as she waved goodbye, promising to see them soon for Yule.


	23. Home for the Holidays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yule celebrations, dance lessons and party planning...

Credence made his way upstairs to his bedroom and hid the gifts in the back of his wardrobe before coming back downstairs in slippers. He looked in the parlor but Mr. Graves was not embedded in his favorite arm chair, afternoon editions of newspapers in hand.

Next Credence stuck his head in the library door and found his host directing books back on to shelves from the table from where they had piled them yesterday as they explored the mythology of holly and ivy and their use in potions and related Yuletide lore.

“I would have done that, you didn’t need to clean up after me, Mr. Graves.”

“Credence! You’re back, was your mission with Queenie successful? Were dragons slain and money well spent?” asked the auror, flicking his wand one final time and depositing “No Maj Holidays from Magic Rites and Celebrations” by Lucia Alembic on the third shelf from the ceiling. He seemed to be in a better mood, though it was hard to say what constituted a happy state for such a serious, guarded man.

"No dragons were harmed in the making of any gifts. At least I think the leather was from cows for one of them,” the young man added, frowning as he contemplated Tina’s watchband. “We found something for everyone on our list, so that counts as a success, I think.”

“I sent out owls with invitations for our New Year’s Day party, so we’ll be able to start planning how many people we’ll be hosting soon.” Credence liked how Mr. Graves had said “we’ and “our”, including him as a host, even though he hadn’t the foggiest idea about what one did to prepare for a party aside from providing food and drinks and maybe music and space for dancing, if it was that kind of party.

“Modesty’s going to be over the moon at attending a grown-up party, well, any party is grand--you know we haven’t gone to any before. I might get pretty jazzed up myself.”

“It’s a good excuse to wear your new duds and look handsome,” said Percival, waving him over to the sofa by the fire to warm up. Credence happily snuggled into a corner of the sofa, putting his feet up as Mr. Graves sat at the other end and put his feet up next to Credence’s. Credence looked him in the face, far more bold and willing to make eye contact with his few friends after a few weeks of feeling safe.

“Me? Handsome? That’s you, I’m just—”

“Nuh-uh-uh,” said Mr. Graves, cutting off Credence’s forthcoming self-deprecation with a cutting gesture. “That’s another habit I want to break you of—putting yourself down. She taught you only too well to ignore the beauties of this world and you need to see yourself as you are, a fair assessment, not grinding yourself down feeling guilty as a hedonistic sinner if you thought you looked good any day.”

“I’m just me,” Credence protested, “maybe not a freak, but I don’t look anything like the men in shirt advertisements or athletes with chiseled faces. You know, a man’s man—hard, tough. Someone who can take on the world and win.”

“Well, I happen to think handsome is a good adjective to start with to describe you. You are quite striking in your unique way and couple that with your intelligence and I’ll be fighting single witches and unspoken for wizards off with strong hexes when you go out in society just to get a moment of your attention, which is as it should be.”

“No, you won’t, and it isn’t,” protested Credence indignantly, fighting off his blushes at the compliments.

Graves looked a bit bewildered, then his face cleared. “Oh, you’ll repel unwanted advances yourself, I see. Forgive me, I understand a man needs to fight his own battles, but I feel a bit over-protective of you, you’re so new to our world.”

“I like having you as my Protector,” ventured Credence. “But I don’t mean to be a bother when you already give me so much.”

“You could never be a bother,” said Percival intensely. “That might be true if you were a squib who could only do the most basic of spells.” He smiled at Credence and the young man felt a warm feeling glow in his chest as he smiled in return, noting the crinkles at the corner of Percival’s brown eyes. “But you’re very far from powerless, as we know, man-who-floats-above the fray.”

Credence snorted in amusement. “Are you reading one of those western novels where the American Indians have long names like that? Sitting Bull, Sleeps like Bear, stuff like that?”

His host shook his head. “Nah, I was just thinking of your floating prowess this morning. Startled the hell outta me. Most wizards and witches need a broom.”

Nodding, Credence absorbed that fact. “What have you decided about the party on New Year’s Day?”

“Well, I know your sister would be sorely disappointed if we neglected to have music and dancing. So I should teach you at least a few dances before then. And light sandwiches, snacks and petit fours (the British call them fairy cakes) and fizzy soda and lemonade for drinks for the kids and a mix of Gigglewater and stronger drinks for the adults. Maybe some games? What do you think?”

Credence shrugged. “I don’t know. All the parties Fred and the newsboys told me about usually involved strong drink followed by brawling and those not fighting betting on the outcome.”

“Hmm, no, not with women and children present we’re not going to have that sort of gathering,” said Graves, casting his mind back to a few bar brawls he had gotten into as a trainee Auror. Sighing in relief, Credence relaxed. “It didn’t sound like a lot of fun to me, just a good way to get beat up, but what do I know? Reading about wedding feasts in the Bible doesn’t give one a good idea about what modern people like.”

Graves shook his head. “You do have an unusual way of looking at the world, my friend. I think I’ll stick to teaching you the waltz and the tango, for now. Just the basic versions, if you want the latest variations then the Goldstein sisters will have to instruct you.”

And so before and after Winter Solstice included dancing lessons as well as lessons in charms and transfigurations and whatever else struck Percival’s inclination to teach and Credence’s curiosity to learn. The first hour of lessons, to his surprise, they didn't dance at all. Instead Mr. Graves’ gramophone was given a workout. By the end of the day Credence could identify a tango’s stalking beat, what tunes work for a foxtrot and Charleston type dance. He already knew what a waltz sounded like—Amazing Grave, if sung slowly, could be three-four time. Because of hymns, he knew more than he thought he did about music. The other music that Mary Lou condemned as sinful from music halls and the theatre district and that he heard people whistle on the streets or hum as they hung laundry in back yards, had stuck in his head despite her hatred of secular music. 

They took a break at Yule and had supper and opened gifts with the Goldstein sisters and Percival firecalled his sister and her family to wish them happy holidays. Tina put on her smart new watch immediately and Queenie squealed over the pink silk scarf that Percival bought her. It contained blowsy cabbage roses that opened in blooms and then circled back into buds before flowering again. His cheek once again was once again marked with her warpaint lipstick in thanks, before Tina passed over a handkerchief to her boss for cleanup.

Tina had bought Queenie silk stockings and her beau Jacob, she confided in a whisper in Credence’s ear, had given her the naughtiest peach colored peignoir. Credence looked at her confused until she explained, “it’s a very slinky ladies robe, sweetie. Never mind, you probably won’t need to know about those.”

Instead of feeling embarrassed about her mentioning his preference for men, Credence just felt relieved it was one fewer thing he needed to learn about, the French names for ladies' underthings. He and Percival had been practicing the waltz the last few days and he was proficient at following and almost as good at leading. Next up, starting tomorrow, was learning the tango.

Credence’s gifts included a wand holster from Tina, popovers from Jacob’s bakery, hair ties and a romance called _The Wizard’s Incubus_ from Queenie that he hastily stashed back in its wrapping, hoping Percival hadn’t seen its suggestive cover and a tie and tie pin and a silver and black damask patterned vest from his host that was very fine.

Finally, Credence sat waiting, holding his breath as Percival carefully unwrapped the gold paper swathed package and opened the jeweler’s box containing the cuff links. Percival was silent for a moment before he looked up and caught Credence’s eyes and smiled warmly at him. “These are magnificent. Onyx for protection. Thank you.” “It’s a small thing to say thank you and wish you happy holidays, sir,” he said, pleased that his gift was well received. With Tina’s help he had added a dozen protective and defensive spells to the cuff links that activated when in close proximity to their wearer.

Bemused, Percival ran a circling fingertip over the dark cabochons, raising an eyebrow as he felt the buzz of the embedded spell work.

“Antivenom? Really? When I live and work in Manhattan?”

“You might need to go to the southwest on a mission or encounter Newt’s creatures sometime,” explained Tina earnestly. “We tried to cover all the exigencies.”

“Keep this up and I’ll think you’re gunning for my job, Goldstein.”

Tina protested, “Oh no, sir," and then added when he shot her a look of patented disbelief, "well, not for a long while. But definitely, eventually--” until she realized her boss was teasing her about her career ambitions and blushed prettily.

"You're fully capable and I expect you'll be good to run the joint, oh, about the time I decide to do something else, maybe become an inspector-general to prevent the entrance of illegal beasts across our borders," he said, winking at Newt's girlfriend. 

After solstice, when the slick shiny paper has burned away in multihued flames in the fireplace, Credence’s ballroom education resumes. 


End file.
